


Playing the Long Game

by booksnchocolate



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Nikandros is a Good Friend, Rivalry, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate
Summary: Damen steamrolls over him. “You’ve got a murder plot and a suspect. What do you need me for?”De Vere looks him up and down exaggeratedly. “You’re the hired muscle, of course.”Damen’s hands clench into fists. “The hired muscle for what?”“For the stakeout we’re about to pull.”His father is dead. The media is a pit of snakes speculating that he did it. As his world crumbles around him, Damen finds himself seeking help from an unlikely quarter - his most bitter rival, the cold, caustic Laurent de Vere.
Relationships: Damen & Nikandros (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Lazar/Pallas (Captive Prince)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 106
Collections: Captive Prince Reverse Bang 2019





	Playing the Long Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the Captive Prince Reverse Big Bang 2019! It was inspired by the lovely art by Kir. See the end for more notes.

“Get out."

Pallas' voice crackles down the line, fuzzy through the static interference and the pounding of Damen's own heartbeat. "You need to get out. Now."

"Can't," Damen hisses between clenched teeth, hardly daring to vocalize as he concentrates on the mass of wires underneath his hands. _Trip wire is the third to the left._ "Busy."

The line crackles again as Pallas blows out a sharp breath. "Damen, please -"

"I'm in the middle of something here," Damen hisses sharply. He strips the wire in deft movements and unspools his own wire from the pouch at his belt. Working quickly, he threads the new wire between the lines of the trip switch, fingers nimble with long practice. 

"Your father is dead." The words hit like a physical blow. Only training keeps Damen upright and locked in position as his world spins around him.

“What?” The word falls from numb lips.

“You need to get out.” Pallas’ voice is rife with urgency. “The authorities are en route to you. Damen, get out, now.” He chokes off.

Damen’s blood runs cold. The wires fall from his suddenly lifeless fingers. He shoots a glance behind him at Nikandros, pale-faced, who heard the whole exchange. “Damen-”

“We’re leaving.” Damen gives him no time to object. As one they gather their tools, wire cutters and lockpicks slipping back into belt pouches, mics checked on collars and in ears. Damen pushes open the door of the server room and peers out into the hallway. Nothing moves and no alarms greet him – small mercies. He gestures to Nik and the two of them jog over to the fire escape at the end of the hall. Nikandros pushes the window open and peers into the alley below, empty save for two giant dumpsters brimming with trash. Underneath the buzz of traffic and the myriad other sounds of the city, Damen can hear sirens. One look at Nik’s face confirms he hears them too.

“We’ve got to leave.” Nikandros’ jaw is set, but Damen can see in his eyes the same frustration that’s burning in his own chest. He’s loath to leave a job undone and the siren song of the still-standing mainframe calls to him.

“Maybe we can still shortcircuit-” Damen’s speaking before he even realizes it, but Nik cuts him off, shoving him lightly towards the open window.

“We have bigger things to deal with,” he says, tone dark and ominous. “Go.”

Damen does. The fire escape is a rickety thing, twisted, rusting metal twining precariously down from the fifth floor of the building. Damen doesn’t think twice about it, though, climbing out the window and swinging out onto the metal stairs with practiced ease. A gust of wind blasts down the alley and the fire escape groans beneath him; time is of the essence. Taking a deep breath, Damen eschews the stairs completely, vaulting over the thin metal railing and swinging down to the platform below, landing neatly on the iron struts. A soft thud overhead tells him Nikandros is following him. The sirens on the breeze are growing closer.

_Your father is dead_. The words ring in Damen’s head and his grip on the railing falters. His stomach lurches sickeningly and suddenly breathing seems impossible. Damen staggers forward as someone hits him from behind – Nikandros, pushing him on. Reality floods back. “Damen, go!”

Damen wastes no time after that, swinging down platform by platform until he can jump the last few feet to the ground. Nik lands beside him, face drawn beneath the tight black cap covering his hair. “Pallas is round the east side.” At a nod from Damen, they set off at a run.

The van is parked half a block away, sandwiched between a mini cooper and a Hummer that probably costs twice Damen’s yearly salary. Pallas hauls open the side door as they approach, face pale and eyes wide. “Let’s go,” he hisses as Damen and Nikandros clamber into the cramped interior, trying not to damage any of Pallas’ precious electronics. “The cops’ll be here any minute.”

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than a police cruiser blazes past them, sirens howling in the night. Damen freezes and sees the apprehension on his friends’ faces, knows it’s mirrored in his own. No one breathes until the cruiser whips around the corner, heading for the front of the building.

Into the silence, Pallas speaks. “Time to get the hell out of here.”

“Go slowly,” Damen tries to say only it comes out as “G—arrgh!” He’s slammed into Nikandros as Pallas floors the gas and peels out of the parking spot with a screech of tires.

+++

Damen half feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience. He moves through the motion of his days on autopilot: a board meeting with his father’s business partners; meeting with his assistant Lykaios to plan the funeral; arranging the matters of Theomedes’ estate with his lawyer. He moves back into his father’s house – the Akielos family home. It’s a surreal feeling to be surrounded by the keepsakes of his childhood; his father’s cherished possessions, which are now his. The house feels too big for him, alone, with all of its yawning empty rooms. Damen seals off most of them, putting dust covers over the antique furniture and confining himself mostly to the ground floor, and the bedroom he’d had as a child.

It feels almost sacreligious, sleeping here again, after so long. The room has been redecorated since he was young, his Batman posters and toy planes replaced by muted nature scenes, “so that it looks presentable. We have a reputation to maintain.” Damen hears the last part in his father’s voice. He sleeps poorly.

One week before the funeral, Damen is sitting in his father’s study – his now, he realizes – when the police come. He looks up at a knock on the front door; it’s barely gone two in the afternoon and he doesn’t have another press conference until five. Warily, he moves to open it but stops as he catches sight of the police cruiser parked in the drive. Alarm shivers up his spine. With a sense of foreboding, he cracks open the door.

“Damianos Akielos?” The officer’s reedy voice greets him the moment he looks out.

“Yes,” says Damen warily. He leans against the door, holding it open one inch but no further, bracing it with the bulk of his body. “What do you want?”

The officer sneers at him, pale lips stretching across stained teeth. “You’re being investigated for the murder of Theomedes Akielos. We need to ask you a few questions.”

For a moment, the world stops turning. Damen feels like he’s been plunged into icy water. His breath comes in short spurts and the strength is gone from his muscles.

Belatedly, he realizes the officer is still speaking. “Can we come in?”

He’s so bowled over by shock that he almost lets them, almost steps back from the door and allows them to pass. Only a lifetime of reminders from Theomedes stops him. _Never let the cops in without a warrant_ , he would say. _Know your rights, Damianos._

“No,” Damen says.

“Sir-”

“Do you have a warrant?”

The pointed silence provides all the answer he needs. “Then no. Now get out.”

It shouldn’t work but something in Damen’s eyes, in the low tone of his voice suggests to the cop that today is not the day for this argument. He shoots Damen a poisonous look as he steps back off the verandah. “You’re being foolish, Mr. Akielos.”

“Better a fool than a pig,” Damen retorts and slams the door so hard it rattles in the frame.

Alone inside, he sinks to the floor, shaking. Only one thought is in his mind. _They think father’s death is linked to me?_

+++

The days leading up to the funeral are a blur. Damen’s assistant Lykaios fends off all but one remaining press conference (“You have to give them something,” she says pragmatically. “You know what the press is like.” Damen does.) So he dresses in his best charcoal grey suit with the red and muted gold tie his father had given him for his college graduation and plasters on his best trademark smile for the media. They’re a seething pit of snakes, all trying to get him to speculate on his father’s death and it makes Damen’s stomach twist sickly to think of all these people so hungry for a story that nothing is off-limits, no matter how fresh the grief.

As the conference winds down, Damen clings desperately to the hope that the police reports haven’t gotten out yet; that no one will ask the question he so dreads. Until the last moment, as he’s preparing to wave goodbye to the horde of reporters, the shout comes from the back. “Mr. Akielos, is it true you’re a suspect in the investigation of your father’s death?”

There’s a shocked silence. Then, pandemonium ensues. The reporters erupt with questions, each shouting to be heard over the other. The crowd lurches forward as one, trying to get closer to the podium, to Damen. He sees red. A flame of bright indignation and fury ignites in his chest. “How dare you,” he says, voice ringing above the clamor of the press. He’s moving before he even knows it, shoving into the throng of journalists and recording equipment, heedless of the shocked noises of the crowd. Someone blames Damen for his father’s death and Damen is going to –

“Stop!” Lykaios appears out of nowhere, clutching Damen’s arm in an iron grip. “No further comments at this time!”

Damen tries to shake her off, still intent on finding the reporter who’d accused him but Lykaios’ grip is iron and she shoves him into the waiting car.

“You can’t,” she says, panting, as they drive away, “give them reactions like that. You know they spread lies; this is the Delpha scandal all over again. You can’t let them get to you.”

Damen clenches his jaw and ignores her.

“Your reactions damage the company’s reputation – is that what your father would have wanted?”

“How do you know what my father would have wanted?” he bursts out angrily. “You know nothing.”

He feels guilty immediately at the look of pain on her face but she doesn’t speak again.

+++

The funeral is a somber affair, held in the church of Damen’s youth. The pastor gives a moving speech about Theomedes’ accomplishments and how his soul is in a better place now. Damen wishes he could believe any of it. The words of his own eulogy feel as if they’re being torn from his throat, each syllable burning into him, reminding him that his father is now gone. Grief opens like a pit in his stomach.

As the coffin is lowered into the ground, Damen sees Kastor through the crowd. Their eyes meet and Damen takes him in; they are of a height and share the same dark hair, the same eyes, and now, the same grief. He feels a well of emotion for his half-brother.

Nikandros corners him as the guests trickle away from the burial ground in ones and twos, heading back towards the funeral parlour for the reception. He approaches Damen with soft footsteps on the freshly mown grass and comes to stand beside him, looking down into the grave.

“You never told him, did you.” It’s not a question.

“Not now, Nik.” Damen can’t stop the edge in his voice, doesn’t really want to. He turns away but Nik starts after him.

“Damen-“

“I said, not now.” How is he supposed to explain this? Tell his father, tell Theomedes Akielos what he really thinks of the corporate enterprises, scenting for blood like sharks on the water. To tell him that by the way, Damen’s preferred pastime is not, in fact, listening to the drone of buzzards at board meetings, that the accomplishment of signing a merger has nothing on the feeling of parsing a safe combination? Damen walks quickly away, breathing deeply to master himself.

Things go south at the reception. Tongues now loosened with wine and griva begin to talk about Theomedes’ death – at first to lament the passing of such a man, and then, to Damen’s growing horror, to discuss the circumstances surrounding his death and the accusation from the recent press conference – that Damen is somehow tied up in a plot of patricide. Guests eye Damen as he passes, gazes stinging and sharp, prickling over his skin. He forces himself to take a breath and calm down, fervently wishing he could have some griva instead of the lemon-flavoured water swirling in his glass. Whispers fly through the air like wasps, and Damen swears he can feel every eye upon him. Sweat prickles out over his skin. He needs to escape.

Turning, Damen shoves his way blindly through the crowd, seeking an exit from the poisonous whispers and stinging words. He finally manages to slide out to a balcony at the back of the hall, overlooking the employee-only parking lot and several dumpsters. He takes a great gulp of tepid summer air, inhaling the faint smell of asphalt and refuse, trying to calm his nerves. _How could they –_

His reverie is interrupted by a sound behind him. Damen whirls, hands immediately coming up in a boxer’s stance.

“Relax,” says a cool voice, betraying no emotion. A young blond man is standing in front of him, long hair caught in a ponytail that falls to the shoulders of his dark suit. Damen drops his hands. Despite everything, he cannot resist the urge to look the man up and down, eyes trailing from the polished Oxfords to the tapered waist and slim shoulders accentuated by the somber colouring of his suit.

“What do you want?” The words come out gruffer than he intends, but the blond man shows no sign of being perturbed.

Instead, he says, “You’re being set up.”

Damen takes an involuntary step back in disbelief and anger. “What?”

And then everything clicks. There’s only one person who would be insouciant – _insolent_ – enough to speak to Damen this way at his father’s funeral.

“You’re Laurent de Vere.”

“I don’t think we’re that friendly yet,” the young man says. His expression could be carved from stone for all the emotion he shows, Damen thinks.

“Luckily I have no intention of being friends with a de Vere,” he snaps, pushed to the end of his patience by these word games. “Why are you here?”

The response is delivered in the same cool tone. “As I said: your father has been murdered. You’re being set up.”

Damen wants to protest, wants to shove this man – de Vere – away from him and storm off to find Nikandros. He wants to mourn his father in peace and in private, away from prying eyes and ill-concealed whispers. Grief and rage are twin wolves snarling inside him. The very notion of being at fault for Theomedes’ death makes him feel sick.

“Why would I believe you?” he spits. He fights down memories of the cops at his door; the poisonous whispers of the funeral guests; the frantic shouts of reporters. “You’re a de Vere, the last person on earth I’d trust.”

De Vere only looks at him. “Because I know you didn’t do it.”

There’s a brief pause while Damen digests this news. He’s hard-pressed to believe de Vere; only a fool would walk so willingly into the hands of a sworn enemy after all. The Akielos and de Vere families’ longstanding feud was no secret. Theomedes’ takeover of Delpha Industries from the de Vere family six years ago had been a widely contested move; Auguste de Vere had been a rising star in the business sector until that merger had crippled his upward progress, sparking dissent among the former Delpha employees and the general public. It had also led to the downfall of the de Veres. Auguste, the eldest son and a big name in the corporate world, had taken the loss of Delpha as a devastating blow, turning to drugs and drink. He had died of an overdose not long after the merger. The younger de Vere, Laurent, had heavily implied to the public that the Akielos family was to blame for his brother’s death. His accusations had been widely publicised, leading to nearly a year of scandal in the tabloids and several drops in Delpha’s shares.

Damen remembers the signing of the merger, how Theomedes had spent nearly 72 consecutive hours locked in the conference room with Auguste de Vere. He remembers the way Theomedes had looked at him when he’d come in, burning with eagerness and said, “Father, I can do it.” How, at the end of a three-hour negotiation, the papers had been signed and Delpha had been ceded to the Akielos hold; how Auguste de Vere had looked at him when they’d shaken hands, the blank tone of his voice, still perfectly pleasant, when he’d said, “Thank you, Mr. Akielos” and Damen had replied, full of vigor and the blindness of youth, “Thank you, Mr. de Vere.” Auguste had been dead within the year.

Belatedly, he realizes de Vere is talking. “Meet me at Café Marlas tomorrow at nine.”

Damen narrows his eyes. “And why would I do that?”

De Vere mimics his sardonic tone. “I’m sure you’ll find it’s in your best interests.”

“Doubtful,” Damen scoffs, wishing this encounter would end. He wonders where Nikandros is, and if Kastor has heard any of the rumours being spread.

“And,” de Vere continues, patting his breast pocket lightly, “because when you meet me there, I’ll return your father’s watch to you.”

Damen’s hand flies to his wrist where his father’s heavy leather and gold watch… isn’t. He steps forward, fists clenched in anger, but de Vere is faster, backing away gracefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t be late.”

Damen grabs at empty air as de Vere slides through the door and is lost among the crowd.

+++

The next morning finds Damen looming over the morning commuters as the subway makes its way to the north side of the city. The carriage is cramped and noisy, warm with the press of half-awake bodies; but Damen, squashed against the doors by a woman with a stroller, barely notices. As he exits the station into the bright morning air, he slides his sunglasses on in a paltry attempt at subterfuge. Nikandros, he knows, would have his hide for this, gallivanting about in the city mere days after news of his father’s death has been plastered in the papers. But de Vere’s words from the previous day had rung in his mind all night and Damen knew he’d have no peace until he got to the bottom of everything. _You’re being set up_. He’d been unable to sleep, ruminating on the police ready to search his house, the insidious whispers of the funeralgoers. He’d sent Kastor a message in the early hours of the morning: _things feel crazy. How are u coping?_ There had been no reply.

Café Marlas is a small building, sandwiched inbetween a 24-hour laundromat and a convenience store. It’s down a side street, off the main road so the foot traffic outside is limited, which only serves to make Damen feel more conspicuous as he pushes open the feeble screen door and steps into the cramped space. An old fashioned bar takes up most of the cafe; its veneer is chipped and scratched and the high stools in front of it have seen better days, their legs coated with grime and rust. The bar has been retrofitted with an ancient coffee machine, which looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years. The wooden floor scuffed to bits and the air hangs stilted and silent, heavy with echoes of the past. The paint on the walls is chipped and peeling in several places, and on the sides of the room, old paintings are displayed, faded mirages of colour by local artists long gone. It takes a moment for Damen’s eyes to adjust to the dim light and for a split second he feels his stomach drop at the thought that de Vere isn’t here – that this is a set up.

No sooner does the thought cross his mind, however, than he spots the pale blond head across the room and heads over. De Vere has changed out of his somber mourning clothes for a tan trench coat with an oversized collar. He’s even wearing dark sunglasses to complete the look, looking every inch a beleaguered pop star hiding from the press, instead of a poisonous thief who’d stolen Damen’s fondest memory of his father off his very person. Damen grits his teeth and heads over.

“Where’s my watch?” he demands, apropos of nothing.

De Vere sits up in his chair, pushing the comically large sunglasses on top of his head. “Hello to you too.”

“Now is not the time for pleasantries,” Damen growls, frustration already mounting. “You have something of mine. Return it.”

“Have a seat,” de Vere says instead, infuriatingly calm. Damen opens his mouth to protest but something flashes in de Vere’s eyes. “I suggest,” he says, enunciating each syllable softly, “that you sit down and listen very carefully to what I have to say. Unless, of course, a life sentence is actually your goal all along.”

Damen sits. De Vere makes a show of flitting his gaze around the room, but the café is empty except for them, the owners apparently having better things to do than eavesdrop on this peculiar meeting. Satisfied, he leans back in his chair, cloaked in easy arrogance. It makes Damen’s blood boil and he clenches his hands into fists under the rickety wooden table. “Give me back the watch.”

“Not until you hear me out,” de Vere snaps back, tone venomous. He mutters something under his breath; Damen catches it. “Maybe I should just let you rot.”

It’s a conscious effort to keep himself calm.

Apparently unaware of his slip, de Vere begins to speak. His tone is polished and emotionless, and it makes Damen want to do nothing more than wring his pale neck. “You’re being set up. Your father’s death was not due to a sudden decline in his health; it was murder.”

Damen jerks back in his chair. “How –”

“It was called in to the police as an anonymous tip. The call named you as the culprit. Someone wants you, specifically, to take the fall for this. It makes sense,” he continues ruthlessly, “you’re the only son of one of the country’s wealthiest businessmen. Theomedes Akielos’ empire has never been greater after the acquisition of Delpha Industries. Taking you out destabilises the whole thing and the power struggles alone would take years to resolve, let alone the restructuring. Any competitor could stand to benefit from your removal.”

His tone doesn’t change from one of disinterest but Damen feels like he’s been dunked in a tank of ice water. “How can you say this?” he asks through numb lips. The urge to push aside de Vere’s conjectures is almost too strong to resist. Only the memory of the shouts of the press stops him.

“If all of this is true,” he says instead, slowly, “how do I know you’re not part of it? How can I be sure this isn’t already part of that plot to set me up?”

Maddeningly, de Vere only shrugs. “You can’t,” he says simply. “After all, the only thing you have to go on is my word as a de Vere.” He smiles a knifeblade smile, there and gone in a heartbeat.

“Calm down, Damianos.” De Vere says, seeing the expression on his face. “Hard as it is to believe, I am perhaps the one element you can take out of your list of enemies.”

“Here,” he says, producing Damen’s watch from some inner pocket. The gold face glints in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. “A gesture of goodwill.”

Damen snorts derisively. “Only a de Vere would steal a man’s watch and call it goodwill.” He snatches the watch and fastens it securely to his wrist, feeling its familiar weight.

“You said my father was murdered.” When de Vere only looks at him, he continues, “By who? How? Why?”

De Vere regards him impassively, scathing blue eyes giving nothing away. “That’s what we need to figure out. Do you know anyone who would seek to harm you?”

Damen frowns. “Aside from half of Wall Street, as you just pointed out? No,” he shakes his head, “I can’t think of anyone.”

“Oh, to be that lucky,” de Vere says, and for a moment Damen thinks it’s meant as a joke. But de Vere’s face is impassive as ever.

“Why are you offering to help me?” The question tumbles out before Damen can stop himself and he wishes he could reel the words in as soon as they leave his throat. But de Vere drums his slim fingers on the table, looking off into the distance as though for all the world he’s considering it. A long moment passes in silence before de Vere speaks.

“I have reason to believe I may soon be in a similar situation.”

“What, murdered?”

De Vere’s glare could peel paint. “Accused of something for which I am not to blame.”

Damen narrows his eyes. “And, what, covertly investigating my father’s death will help you prove your innocence?”

“It may,” de Vere says. “It is a chance I’m willing to take.”

Damen spreads his hands, feeling in over his head though they’ve been talking for maybe half an hour all told. “So, what do you suggest? That we hire a private investigator?”

De Vere looks at him coolly. “I have always found that outsourcing creates more problems than it solves.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

De Vere pulls a napkin from the flimsy metal holder and scrawls something on it – coordinates. He sets the pen aside and pushes the napkin across the grimy table to Damen who takes it gingerly.

“Meet me there. Tomorrow. Noon. Come alone.”

Damen shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m walking into wherever that is alone. For all I know it could be a trap –”

“And yet you’ve come here unguarded,” de Vere interjects smoothly.

Damen shifts slightly in his seat, letting the suit jacket strain over his biceps, enjoying how De Vere’s gaze cuts away from his face for a brief moment. “I liked my chances,” he says calmly. They sit in silence for a while, each eyeing the other, waiting to break the stalemate.

“Fine,” de Vere snaps, obviously irritated by Damen’s precaution, “it’s my apartment. Happy?”

_Far from it_. “I’ll be there,” Damen says instead, forcing his voice level.

When de Vere doesn’t reply, Damen pushes his chair back, taking the meeting as concluded. He doesn’t look back as he exits the café, careful to keep his hands naturally at his sides so de Vere can’t see that Damen’s just lifted his monogrammed pen.

+++

Nikandros takes the news about as well as expected – that is to say, not well at all.

“Are you mad?” he asks Damen, voice tight with barely repressed anger. “You’re meeting with de Vere?” He paces the confines of the drawing room in the Akielos family home like a caged tiger.

Damen raises a hand to stop him. “I know how it sounds,” he says. “I’ve thought it through and –”

“Clearly you have _not_.” Nikandros’ voice is strained. “The de Veres are your rivals, Damen, they’re the ones who stand to gain the most from any interruption of Theomedes’ succession. Or have you forgotten Delpha?”

“I have not forgotten anything,” Damen responds, his own voice tightly controlled. “I’m not doing a deal with him. It’s nothing like that. He says…” and here he pauses, licking his lips before voicing the words, “he claims to know more about the circumstances surrounding my father’s death.”

“More like what?” Nikandros asks incredulously, dark eyebrows raised. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Theomedes died of systemic organ failure after weeks in hospital – what more is there to know? You should be concentrating on the forward plan for the company, not building conspiracy theories with your sworn enemy.”

“Nik, you weren’t there,” Damen says. “You saw the press conference; you’ve seen the newspaper headlines. The rumours are out there that it wasn’t just sickness – and people are eating that shit up. You heard all the whispers at the funeral.” For Nikandros had heard them, the venomous gossip flying through the rooms of the funeral parlour, the loose lips and furtive eyes of the guests saying more than their false sympathies ever could.

“People suspect me,” Damen says. If Nikandros notices how his voice strains on the final word, he’s kind enough not to say it. “I need to quell those rumours and if de Vere has anything to say on that front, I’m willing to listen.”

Nikandros glowers at the single orchid on the table in front of him. It sits in an ornate glass vase, growing tall and beautiful. It had been Damen’s mother’s, before she’d passed. Theomedes had no interest in gardening and so its maintenance had fallen to Damen and Kastor; and later, Damen alone. “I don’t like it.”

Damen fingers de Vere’s pen in his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the monogrammed initials on the casing. _DV_. “Neither do I,” he says.

+++

The coordinates lead Damen to a nondescript residential building in the wealthier part of town. He treks past upscale coffee shops and hipster bars with deconstructed industrial fittings peeking through the polished glass windows, Edison lights winking out from their facades. He shoves his hands in his pockets, deliberately setting his shoulders as he walks. This may be de Vere’s territory but he won’t be intimidated here. Entering the building, he steps into a somber lobby whose vaulting ceilings do little to alleviate the drab atmosphere provided by the dark marble of the floor and walls. There’s a bored looking youth in a black hoodie at the reception desk; he can’t be more than sixteen by Damen’s estimate. He’s playing a game on his phone but looks up to shoot Damen a spiteful glare as he approaches.

Damen reaches the desk and pauses, waiting for the boy to ask his purpose. When no such question seems forthcoming, he clears his throat and speaks.

“I’m here to see Mr. de Vere. Which floor?”

The boy shoots him another insolent look. “Name?” his voice is soft, surprisingly so given the death stare he’s been leveling at Damen since he walked in.

Damen pauses again, wondering if his name will curry favour or displeasure here. “Damianos Akielos,” he says.

The boy gives him another indecipherable look, blue eyes narrowing.

“Fifteenth floor,” he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his tone.

“Thank you,” Damen says, already striding towards the elevators at the far end of the lobby.

“Whatever,” he hears the youth mutter behind him.

Damen nearly kicks himself when he steps out of the elevator and realizes he hasn’t gotten the room number, but it turns out not to matter. There’s only one door on this floor and the brass nameplate beside it reads _de Vere_ in elegant, flowing script. Damen narrows his eyes at the pretentious decoration but steps to the door anyway and knocks solidly three times. A small voice in his head wonders if he could be disturbing anything, but he reminds himself that it’s de Vere’s fault Damen has these coordinates in the first place.

The door opens just as Damen’s raised his hand to knock again and he’s greeted by the annoyingly familiar but no less antagonistic face of Laurent de Vere. There’s a pitched pause as each recognizes the other. Damen takes in de Vere’s long hair, freed from its ponytail and falling to his mid back. The loose hair is a contrast to the rest of his outfit: starched blouse buttoned up nearly to the throat and tightly at the wrists; the dark trousers, impeccably tailored, highlighting long, slim legs. On his feet, a pair of black Oxfords gleam to perfection. The silver chain at his neck, visible in the barest gaping of his collar, is the only nod to any type of ornamentation. Damen, whose outfit of preference on his days off consists of gym shorts and whatever tank top seems the cleanest, wonders faintly if de Vere knows the meaning of the word “casual”.

De Vere huffs, jerking him back to the present. He inches the door wider, stepping aside. “I suppose you might as well come in.”

The inside of the flat is more spacious and airy than the building itself suggests. Wide windows span one wall, the floor to ceiling view presenting a small balcony looking over the city beyond. The floor is done in smooth, pale wood that catches the midday light warmly, lending the flat a soft glow. The entryway Damen is standing in gives directly into what he surmises is the living room, strewn with low, plush couches in pale fabrics. The far wall is dominated by a large mural, depicting a galloping horse, a charging silhouette of red, black and gold paint on a white background. A short hallway leads off from the entryway, to what Damen presumes is the kitchen and de Vere’s bedroom. He doesn’t get a chance to wonder, however, because de Vere is already leading him to the living room and gesturing impatiently towards one of the low couches.

“Sit.”

Damen bristles at the imperious tone. “I’m not a dog,” he says.

De Vere glares at him, annoyance glinting in his blue eyes. “Stand then.”

For a brief moment, Damen considers it. He weighs the urge to trample over de Vere’s tidy furniture with his shoes against the urge to know what’s going on. He sits.

“You said my father was murdered.”

De Vere nods. “I did.”

“You said you know how to prove my innocence.”

“Yes.”

Damen narrows his eyes. “I don’t like you,” he says.

“Congratulations,” de Vere says drily. “You are a master of stating the obvious. As it turns out, I have no love for you either. Now, are you going to rehash our conversation sentence by sentence or are we free to move on to more important topics?”

“Fine,” Damen sits back. “You want to prove my father’s death was a murder and that I didn’t do it. And how do you suggest we go about this monumental task?”

De Vere’s eyes are like ice. “You toe the line,” he warns softly. A chill runs down Damen’s spine and he subsides.

After a moment, de Vere speaks again. “I followed your family’s successes after the acquisition of Delfeur.” He pronounces the word the Veretian way, Damen notes, voice curling over the syllables. “Your father may have gained a great amount of support from the public sector but some private entities disliked his branching out.”

Damen frowns. “Cut the preamble. Not everyone was happy with Delpha but it was the right move for the company, strategically.” He says the words almost by rote. “That’s not why my father died.”

De Vere reaches into a drawer in the low coffee table nestled between him and Damen. He pulls out a thin manila folder and slides it across the table. “I have taken the liberty,” he says, “of procuring the autopsy report.”

Damen’s stomach lurches at the words. He feels sick at the thought of some stranger – let alone a de Vere – going through his father’s records. De Vere’s face is an impassive mask. His expression might as well be carved from stone for all the emotion he shows, and Damen’s stomach lurches sickly at how calculating and cold the man is.

Damen takes the report with numb fingers and scans the first page. A list of details about his father: name, age, time and date of death. He leafs through the report almost unseeing, the black and white words driving home what even the funeral had not: your father is dead.

“Well?” de Vere’s voice snaps him back to the present. “Do you see it?”

Damen clenches his teeth, forcing himself back to the task at hand. “See what?” he asks. “What am I looking for?”

“Cause of death: lung and –”

“Kidney failure,” Damen interrupts. “Multiple organ shutdown.” He tosses the report back onto the table. “I don’t see how that suggests murder. My father was old. He’d been sick for a long time. It was,” he struggles with the word, clumsy and ugly in his mouth, “inevitable.”

De Vere slings one leg over the arm of his seat. He’s the very picture of an insolent prince. “The coroner’s report found a high amount of unidentified toxins in his liver.”

“He’d been on a drug cocktail for months,” Damen points out. “Why are you so sure he was poisoned?”

“Why are you so adamant he wasn’t?”

“Because no one would do that!” Damen bursts out. “The only people who entered the ward were the nurses, the doctors and us – family.”

There’s a brief pause. Something clouds in de Vere’s eyes then. “No matter,” he says. “The fact remains that your father was poisoned and I know,” he continues, cutting Damen off as he tries to interject, “because the high levels of these toxins were brought on by _flamnoir_ , what you would call the Black Flame _._ It’s-”

“A Veretian poison,” Damen finishes. He’s heard of the highly dangerous street drug; there had been a deluge of articles about it after Auguste de Vere’s death, speculation that his apparent overdose had been something more sinister – but it had only been speculation.

“Yes. Extremely rare, and, if administered in a high enough dosage, extremely deadly. It’s no secret that the de Vere and Akielos families don’t get along. How easy to capitalize on the blatant rivalry and use the ensuing strife to topple both houses in one fell swoop.”

“You think it was premeditated,” Damen says. The words sink into his skin, chilling him and he shivers despite the bright sunlight. “Fine. By who? What corporation stands to gain from my father dying slowly?”

“It doesn’t have to be a corporation,” de Vere says. “Usually, it’s the ones closest to us that prove far more dangerous.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience,” Damen says.

De Vere doesn’t reply.

_Talking to you is like wringing blood from a stone_ , Damen thinks, but he rallies himself and tries again. “Assuming you’re right and it is poison, what do you propose we do about it?”

“Simple,” de Vere says. “First, we find the poison. Since it’s so rare, the killer will most likely have kept it.”

“Are we searching the city by house?” Damen asks. “That should only take about eighty years. I’ll have served my life sentence twice over by then.” He knows being so insouciant is a gamble but it’s worth it to see the crease of annoyance forming between de Vere’s golden brows.

De Vere doesn’t answer right away but instead pulls out another dossier and opens it on the table. This time, Damen is greeted by spreads of newspaper clippings, online magazine printouts and tabloid headlines.

“What is all this?”

“Evidence.” De Vere hands him the first clipping, the newsprint dry with age. _CEO Mark Emrys Dead of Heart Attack_ , the headline reads. De Vere looks at him expectantly as Damen leafs through the next few clippings. _Head of Operations at DeltaWorld Confirmed Critical_. Damen pauses on one. _Death Amongst the De Veres!_ the faded print cries out. There’s something he’s not getting here. The deaths seem random at best, and although de Vere obviously thinks they’re connected, Damen can’t see what links them.

“I don’t see it,” he says, placing the articles back on the table.

De Vere leans forward, golden hair falling forward to shade his face. “Heart attack,” he points to one. “Stroke.” Another. “Accidental overdose.”

“Those are all normal ways to die,” Damen tries to say. The words feel strange and heavy in his mouth.

But de Vere is shaking his head. “No,” he says, “none of them had any previous history of medical issues. All of these deaths came as a shock. And each of these people were the head officers of up and coming businesses and corporations, all of whom could have vied for a handhold in the Delfeur business had their owners not met unfortunate ends.”

“How can you be so sure?” Damen asks. “Did you steal their autopsy reports too?”

De Vere ignores him. “It made me curious, so I looked into it. At the time of their deaths each person had been involved in talks to supplant someone’s interest in Delfeur industries. That someone was the head of a business known as Michel Regent.” At Damen’s startled look, he nods. “You’ve heard of Regent.”

Damen narrows his eyes, trying to recall the name. He comes up with a vague memory of a pleasant bearded man shaking his hand at a shareholders’ meeting but nothing more. “I didn’t notice anything off about him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” de Vere says. “He’s talented that way.”

“You think he killed these people over a business merger?”

“Men have done more for less,” is de Vere’s response. “Regent Inc. would have taken a severe hit from any merger. Your father was lucky to succeed long enough for the deal to go through. Do you remember when he started showing symptoms?”

Damen flashes back to the first time it had happened. A routine business meeting had erupted in panic when Theomedes had collapsed halfway through. Damen still remembers the shock and fear like a punch in the gut of seeing his father, a paragon of strength, lying so still on a hospital stretcher. “Yes,” he says slowly, “it was just as the final merger was about to go through. At first we weren’t sure if it would succeed with him in the hospital, but it was still finalized.”

De Vere nods. “It confirms my suspicions,” he says, just as Damen says, “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Why Regent? Why would the CEO of a company so far removed from my father’s want him dead?” he gestures across the space between them. “By rights, you have more reason to want my father out of the equation than he does. Delpha could have gone to de Vere.”

De Vere gives a small shrug. “Regent plays the long game.”

Damen narrows his eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

De Vere makes a show of buffing his nails on the sleeve of his shirt. “There are many things I’m not telling you, Damianos, and all with good reason.”

He opens his mouth to continue but Damen steamrolls over him. “You’ve got a murder plot and a suspect. What do you need me for?”

De Vere looks him up and down exaggeratedly. “You’re the hired muscle, of course.”

Damen’s hands clench into fists. “The hired muscle for what?”

“For the stakeout we’re about to pull.”

No, Damen wants to say, absolutely not. He should leave immediately, call the cops on de Vere and all his crazy theories. But something tickles the edges of his mind, just out of reach, keeps him in his chair. The long days and longer nights of his fresh grief have been weighing on him; and all the tension from the police visits and press conferences has taken its toll. Damen’s skin itches for the familiar excitement of a heist.

De Vere is eyeing him with utter contempt as if sensing his hesitation. “I never thought Damianos Akielos would shy away from a challenge.”

That does it. “Fine,” Damen says, “I’m in.”

Against all odds, Damen spends the next several hours at de Vere’s place, bent over the coffee table with him, discussing options. It’s surreal in a way he can’t explain, knowing he’s planning a stakeout with someone who should by rights be an enemy. _He still is_ , Damen reminds himself when de Vere leaves to get himself a glass of water. He never offers Damen one.

The room is thrown into golden relief by the setting sun as Damen and de Vere finally wrap up their discussion. It’s for the best that Damen has cancelled all forthcoming press appearances as for the next fortnight he’ll be spending time with de Vere researching and planning strategy. He can feel the electric thrumming in his veins that precedes any job.

The plan is almost laughable in its simplicity, really, Damen thinks. Break into Regent’s house. Steal the poison. Get out. Don’t get caught. It’s almost like any one of a hundred jobs he’s run with Nikandros throughout the years, but this time the stakes are higher than erasing student debt or stealing famous paintings – now, he’s hunting his father’s killer.

“I still don’t know how Regent could possibly have gotten close enough to my father to kill him,” Damen says, late in the afternoon. “Kastor – my brother and I were with him every day.” A niggling voice in the back of his mind reminds Damen that Kastor hasn’t replied to any of his messages but he pushes the thought away. Kastor has his reasons for keeping to himself; Damen can only trust that he’ll talk when he’s ready.

“People work in mysterious ways,” is all de Vere says in reply and they get back to planning.

The first step is to find the location of Regent’s private abode, which would be laughably easy were it not for the man’s near-invisible presence.

“This is ridiculous,” Damen says in frustration, after checking all his usual sources. “He can’t just spring up from a hole in the ground. What does he do, sleep at the office?”

De Vere shakes his head, a whisper of golden hair. “He only ever appears in the media when he’s at his business headquarters, but he appears fairly frequently. He can’t live that far away.” If Damen were feeling generous, he’d ascribe the steel in de Vere’s tone to the same frustration he feels at being set back so early in their plan. “Let me make some calls. We will reconvene tomorrow evening.”

It’s not much to go on, but it has to be enough. Never has Damen thought he’d trust the word of a de Vere on anything, let alone his father’s death – but he’d never expected the press to pick up the scent of treason from him; he’d never expected to be in a place where the word of his enemy is almost a comfort. De Vere shows him to the door.

“One more thing,” he says, as Damen gathers his jacket and prepares to leave. De Vere holds out a hand, an insolent gesture. “I’d like my pen back.”

Damen complies almost on autopilot, reaching into the folds of his jacket for the pen. His fingers close around the sleek metal and he offers it nib-first towards de Vere, feeling the engraved _DV_ against his fingertips. De Vere reaches for the pen and as he does so their fingers brush together. The touch is light, barely there, but Damen feels a sudden intense awareness of where their fingers had touched, as if de Vere has branded him. He flexes his hand discreetly as he turns away. It was most likely just a shock.

He resolves not to think about it. He’s halfway home before he realizes one of his cufflinks is missing.

On the drive home, Damen fights back a wince each time he hears the wail of police sirens. _They don’t have a warrant_ , he tells himself firmly. _They can’t search anything without it_. Still, he’s on edge by the time he finally pulls into the driveway and he takes the wide stone steps two at a time to the front door.

The sight that greets him is like a physical shock. A note is pinned to his front door, held up by a nail hammered crudely into the polished wood. _Patricide_ , it reads. _Murderer._ Damen recoils in horror. The air feels like it’s been punched from his lungs. He can’t breathe. Instinct takes over and he tears down the signs, crumpling the grainy paper until the red lettering is illegible. He yanks the nail from the door with his hands, not even processing the bite of the metal into his skin. The nail comes free with a hard tug and it clatters to the ground with a sound that’s almost painful to Damen’s ears. He shoves his key in the door, nearly falling into the house in his haste, and locks it behind him, leaning against it to try and calm his breathing. Dizzy from the adrenaline and bloodrush, he tries to get himself under control.

It’s a long moment before his breathing evens out and he’s able to unfurl the papers once more. The accusations stare up at him, red ink seeming to pulse off the page. Damen spreads them out on the floor and fumbles for his phone, taking two quick photos and sending them to Nikandros.

The reply is nearly instant. _What the FUCK_

_I know_ , Damen types, _on the front door_.

Nikandros types and deletes about fifteen messages from the looks of it. At last the three ellipses stop. _I’ll be there in five_.

Damen’s typing before he even knows what he’s saying. _No. it’s ok_. _took them down, we’ll talk tmrw_

_?????_ is Nik’s eloquent reply.

Damen can’t put into words everything he’s feeling, why he doesn’t want his best friend over right now. Nik can read him like a book, and Damen gets the feeling that the fewer people who know about his and de Vere’s plans, the better. It’s just for tonight, he tells himself. Tomorrow, he’ll tell Nik everything.

+++

He doesn’t tell Nik everything the next day, opting instead to storm over to de Vere’s flat and toss the papers onto his coffee table without so much as a hello.

De Vere looks up slowly from where he’d been making notes in a small spiral-bound notebook, in elegant, flowing script. “May I help you?” he asks coolly.

“Last night,” Damen starts, and then gathers himself. “When I arrived home last night, these were nailed to my front door.” His breaths echo loudly in the pause that follows.

“You tore them down yourself,” de Vere says slowly. His voice seems more detached than normal, which Damen had previously not thought possible. “That was stupid. There could have been razor blades beneath, or worse.”

Damen forces his jaw to work. “You think someone could have poisoned me? Is it also Regent?”

“I don’t know enough to speculate on that,” de Vere says with the tone of one touching something particularly sordid. “Not yet, at least. But it does mean we need to accelerate our plans.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Damen sinks into the opposite chair. He’ll give de Vere this – the man may be heartless but at least the furniture is comfortable. He barely manages to suppress a sigh as his tense muscles relax into the plush fabric.

De Vere glances up. He opens his mouth as if to say something then thinks the better of it. Instead he fishes something out of his breast pocket and places it on the table: Damen’s missing cufflink. “Here.”

Damen braces his forearms on his knees and leans forward. He picks the cufflink up and toys with it, feeling the weight of the silver nugget in his palm. “Has your man replied?”

“Yes,” de Vere says. He opens a sleek chrome laptop that had been set to one side and spins it around on the coffee table so Damen can see the screen. It’s a grainy Google Maps image, overly pixilated from zooming in on a low-resolution photo. Damen can just about make out a sprawling house, all angular, irregular sides, the lines of it like something out of an avant-garde fashion magazine. Massive windows span nearly the entirety of one wall. It looks like the house of someone with money – lots of it.

“That’s it then,” he says, though he hardly needs de Vere’s confirmation. The other man nods, a slight inclination of the golden head.

“There’s no listed address. I have no idea how he got that past the by-laws or the land registry office but money has always spoken louder than the law ever will.”

“Nonetheless, the house exists. This source places it about forty-five minutes north of the city, in the border of the Kemptian forests.”

Damen studies the blurred image, as if the black and grey pixels can give him the answers he so desperately needs. “What are we waiting for, then,” he says, because forward is the only way out. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

(He lifts de Vere’s wallet off the side table as he goes.)

+++

They drive out in the predawn hours. The world passes still and quiet around them as the highway rolls on under the wheels of Damen’s car.

_“I am not_ , _” Damen had said, “getting in a car with you in the driver’s seat.”_

_“Then you’ll enjoy the walk out to Regent’s, I’m sure,” de Vere had sniped back._

_But Damen had held fast. “Either I drive or it’s off.”_

_De Vere had scowled at him so fiercely Damen thought his face would freeze like that if it hadn’t already_. _“Pick me up at four am.”_

Damen glances over to de Vere in the passenger seat. Despite the early hour, he shows no signs of tiredness, blue eyes alert and scanning the horizon intently though there’s not much to see in the predawn gloom. Damen stifles a yawn and wishes he felt the same. He can’t remember the last time he’s gotten a full night’s sleep, not with the accusations of the press ringing in his ears, and the nightmares that won’t leave him alone.

The drive passes in deliberate silence. Darkness still shrouds the landscape, low hills and scraggly trees melting into each other in the gloom. At last, they come to a small drive off the highway and de Vere sits up in his seat. “Here.”

Damen obligingly turns the car and manoeuvres them onto a cracked, poorly-paved road that meanders through tall pines until it ends in a small clearing. A faded sign proclaims it to be the parking lot for “Ne Fo est H kes”. Damen pulls up next to the lone signpost and cuts the engine.

“What now?” he wants to ask, but de Vere has already slipped his seatbelt and thrown open the passenger door. Damen follows him out, skin prickling into goosebumps despite the thermal shirt he’s wearing. The predawn world is cold and silent as de Vere slips on the small backpack he brought and begins to make his way into the woods. Damen slips on his own backpack and follows, locking the car behind him. Their footsteps crunch over gravel, and then over bracken and soft earth as the path narrows and they make their way further into the forest. The trees rise up around them, imperious grey-green shadows against the inky sky. There’s not much light yet, but Damen keeps his eyes trained on de Vere ahead of him, a lithe black-clad figure slipping between trees and over fallen logs. His blonde hair is tucked up in a neat ponytail beneath his black fleece cap and Damen staunchly refuses to feel any dismay at the fact that he can’t use the beacon of pale hair as a guide.

They make good time on their hike, de Vere pausing only briefly every so often to consult the map and small compass he brought with him. Damen keeps his eyes on the surroundings as they do so; they haven’t made much noise by his estimate, but it never hurts to be careful. He also keeps a mental note of where they’ve been, noting landmarks and directions. Despite de Vere’s seeming innocence, Damen knows there is a much more malicious nature lurking underneath, and wouldn’t put it past de Vere to vanish and leave him here – or worse, lure him into some sort of trap. He tightens his grip on his backpack.

They’ve been hiking for nearly an hour when they finally reach the house. Damen notices it before he realizes where they are. The sounds of the sleeping forest are quiet here; the chitter of nocturnal animals and rustle of leaves stops and Damen is left alone with the sound of his own breath. He looks around. The pines grow thickly as ever here, but if he looks ahead, there seems to be a small clearing. He gestures at de Vere, who nods, and together they make their way through the trees, carefully navigating snapped branches and fallen leaves.

Damen is almost at the edge of the clearing when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Instinct takes over and he grasps his attacker firmly by the wrist, preparing to flip them over his back, when de Vere’s voice hisses “Stop”. Damen releases him immediately. He’s opening his mouth to apologize but de Vere holds a finger to his lips and Damen takes the hint. Silence. Seeing that he has Damen’s attention, de Vere points down to the dark ground and Damen notices for the first time a thin wire, nearly invisible, ankle-high in the undergrowth. A trip wire. Heart hammering in his chest from the close call, Damen nods to show he’s understood. De Vere steps over the wire with almost exaggerated carelessness and Damen follows.

The trees give on what would be a spacious clearing were it not for the enormous structure – Damen is hesitant to call it a house – that dominates the space. It’s an imposing building, all sharp angles and straight lines. It can’t be more than two stories high, Damen estimates, though the sharply pointed roof gives the impression the house is stabbing up from the earth, ready to tear a hole through the fabric of the sky. He assesses it curiously, noting the large floor-to-ceiling windows taking up the wall facing them. The house seems to be all obscure angles – no two sides look alike in length. A floorplan would come in handy here, he thinks, and makes a note to try and track down the architect. Crouched on the forest floor beside him, de Vere is surveying the house through a small pair of binoculars.

“See anything?” Damen whispers, lips barely moving.

“Cameras,” de Vere replies, words barely more than a puff of air. “At the front door and main windows. Security team too, by the looks of it.”

“Let me see.” Damen half expects an objection but de Vere passes him the binoculars silently.

The view looks even more dire up close. Through the binoculars, Damen can see the cameras de Vere told him about. He can also see that there’s no hidden way to the front door, since it’s in no less than three different lines of sight, not to mention the burly security guard patrolling the front walk.

“You don’t have connections in the hydroelectric world, do you?” Damen asks. It’s only half a joke. Cutting power to Regent’s house would solve their problems but nothing ever comes that easy.

“Damn,” Damen curses. He slides his gaze over to the front door again. Up close, he can see how truly impenetrable the house is meant to be. The telltale shape of a fingerprint scanner sits right by the door, and looking at the bulky doormat, which is completely incongruous with the design of the rest of the house, Damen can only assume it’s meant to hide a weight-sensitive plate. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

It’s too dark to see de Vere’s face properly. His tone is wry when he replies and Damen almost thinks there might be humour there. “And here I was hoping you’d just bulldoze your way in there.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Damen grins then immediately chastises himself. He’s here to do a job, not to banter with de Vere. He takes a step away. “Let’s scope out the back.”

They skirt the perimeter of the clearing as the sky steadily lightens above them, inky night fading into the deep blues and indigos of dawn. Birds begin to chirp more readily from nests hidden in the trees. By the time they make it back to the car, the sun has breached the horizon and the sky is tinged with pink and orange. De Vere pulls off his black beanie and his blonde hair cascades arousd his shoulders, tinged gold in the slowly rising sun. Damen busies himself searching for his keys. The sun is in Damen’s eyes on the drive back to the city. He and de Vere sit in silence for it, each mulling over their newfound knowledge.

“If we can get the floorplan-“ Damen starts at the same time as de Vere says, “The schematics would-“ They both cut off and look at each other.

“Great minds,” Damen quips, giving into the brief moment of levity despite himself.

De Vere blinks at him. “Watch the road,” he says after a beat. Damen returns his gaze to the asphalt winding away beneath them. Then, “We’ll keep watch on the house. Once we know Regent’s movements in and out of it, we’ll be able to act.”

+++

The thing no one talks about with stakeout is – they’re fucking long. And boring. After the third day in a row of hiding in the forest watching the same guards walk the same perimeter at the same time, Damen is about ready to punch someone.

“We should just go – there’s a break in their rotation at three pm, we need to get in there.”

“Absolutely not,” de Vere scowls. “We’re in no way prepared enough to move forward. We don’t know the inner layout-“

“It’s a two-storey house. It takes like ten minutes to search, max.”

“And ten seconds to trip an alarm and get security called on us, sending us both to prison. Think! We need to know exactly what we’re walking into, and we can’t do that without getting the schematics.” He pauses and his tone softens slightly. “We can’t afford to rush this.”

Damen’s hands are clenched into fists but he knows de Vere is right: preparation is paramount in this business. Still, the thought of being so close to getting answers, to unveiling his father’s killer, and yet being unable to act rankles him sorely.

“Will you be able to do it? To find any type of floorplan of the house?”

De Vere is silent for a moment. “Potentially,” he says slowly, in a way Damen is pretty sure means no.

“Let me try,” Damen says. “I have some connections.” He doesn’t know what prompts him to offer it, to extend this olive branch, when de Vere has been nothing but caustic and mysterious since they met. But the words are out and he can’t take them back.

For a moment, de Vere is silent and Damen half thinks he’ll refuse. “As long as you’re –“

“Careful, I know,” Damen finishes for him. “Do you really think I’ll go telling the first person I meet that I’m in league with you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” de Vere snaps. “Your reputation isn’t the only one on the line here.” Then, after a moment: “It would be… appreciated,” de Vere says slowly, as if gratitude is a foreign taste in his mouth. “Thank you.”

Damen shrugs awkwardly at the change of tone. “I’m the one benefitting from this,” he says.

De Vere hums noncommittally in response. He’s looking through the binoculars, head turned in profile to Damen. The clearing is empty and silent in front of them and Damen takes the time to sneak surreptitious glances at the blonde head, the angular profile de Vere presents to him. He really is beautiful like this, Damen allows. With his high cheekbones and strong jaw on display, blond hair slightly tousled from the tight cap, just brushing the edge of the skintight turtleneck he’s wearing – yes, he is beautiful. De Vere lifts one elegant hand to brush away a stray tendril of hair from his cheek and Damen is caught by the grace of his movement. It would be easy, he thinks, to reach out and trace the jut of a cheekbone, the fine arch of a golden eyebrow. Like this, silent and removed, it would be almost easy to forget de Vere’s caustic personality; almost easy to trust him; almost easy to want him. Damen pinches the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. He lets the pain drag him back to the present. De Vere’s voice rings in his head: _there are many things I’m not telling you_. He can’t trust de Vere. He won’t.

The rest of the day passes slowly. At night they take turns keeping guard, sleeping in two-hour shifts. The first time he lies down in the makeshift tent, Damen half expects to be woken by police sirens and piercing alarms. It’s almost a surprise when de Vere’s hand on his shoulder shakes him awake in quiet darkness. The moon is shadowed tonight, its weak pallor tinging de Vere’s hair with silver thread. Damen is silent as they trade places; he determinedly doesn’t look as de Vere rolls himself into the sleeping bag. He exits the small tent into the nighttime chill of the forest and perches on the curled root of a tree to keep watch, senses alert for any disturbance of the sleeping forest. Regent’s house is silent; there is no movement across the green expanse of the lawn and the lights of the house are dark, windows shuttered. In a few hours, Damen knows, the owner will wake and leave for work, and the security team will patrol the perimeter again. All they can do now is watch and wait.

They drive back into town as the sun starts to rise. The city is just waking up as they pull up to de Vere’s building. Damen parks curbside and takes in the foot traffic as early morning commuters and shift workers head to work. He can hear the rumble of the subway in the distance. On the sidewalk, a cluster of pigeons peck eagerly at the remnants of an abandoned hotdog.

“Here is fine,” de Vere says, though Damen hasn’t moved the car for several minutes. He makes to get out and something tugs sharply in Damen’s chest.

“Let me get you coffee,” Damen says. He blinks as his brain catches up to his mouth.

De Vere glances sidelong at him. “I didn’t think we were at that stage of our relationship yet,” he says, tone just shy of frost.

Damen searches for some reason to justify his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. “We’ll have to work as a team to get inside Regent’s house. We might as well start acting like one. Besides,” he says, “it will give you time to return my wallet.”

De Vere blinks slowly at him, as if re-evaluating a previously-known fact. He’s too well-trained to let his hand move to his pocket where Damen knows his wallet has been secreted. “In that case,” he says slowly, “I think you had better start calling me Laurent.”

They have coffee at a small café just round the corner: a latte for Laurent, while Damen gets his preferred Americano with a blondie. Damen pays and tips the barista before heading over to the small table where de Vere – Laurent, he mentally corrects himself – is sitting, watching the world wake up beyond the smudged window. They don’t talk much, but the silence has started to lack the decidedly strained quality of their first few meetings. Damen resolutely refuses to notice it. The blondie is slightly under-baked, chewy in the middle, just the way he likes. He lets the cloying sweetness of processed sugar distract him for a moment from the elegant picture Laurent manages to paint, even here, in nondescript clothes in a random coffee shop. If things had been different, he admits to himself, if they had met any other way than in the middle of their families’ longstanding feud, than Damen embroiled in a murder conspiracy – he might have made a pass at Laurent. Maybe. Perhaps.

“Be careful when you get home,” de Vere – Laurent – says, his voice jarring Damen back to reality. He’s still looking out the window, posture casual, one leg drawn up onto the seat of the chair.

Damen leans back in his own chair, trying to appear as calm as Laurent is. Memories of the notes, the police banging on the door, the implicit threat in the officer’s eyes flash in his mind. “You think someone will target me?”

Laurent turns then to look at him and there’s nothing but seriousness in his eyes when he speaks. “I think someone already has.”

Damen remembers their first conversation at Café Marlas. _Someone is setting you up_.

“Give me your phone,” Laurent says.

The request – more of an order, really, catches Damen off-guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Laurent says imperiously. Damen does as he’s told.

Laurent gestures for him to unlock it and then takes it, typing quickly. He hands it back after a moment. “My number,” is all he says as explanation.

“Thank you,” Damen says, tucking his phone back into his pocket, next to one of Laurent’s gloves, which he’d snuck from the passenger seat of the car as Laurent had exited.

Damen is filled with trepidation as he approaches his house. The front door, at least, is unmarked this time he sees as he walks up the drive. Gravel crunches under his feet. Unlocking the door, he breathes a sigh of relief as he slips inside. For now, at least, it seems that he’s safe. He pulls out his phone.

To: Laurent de Vere 9:26am

_Got home ok_

From: Laurent de Vere 9:28am

_Good._

From: Laurent de Vere 10:03am

_Meet me tmrw._

+++

“Are we running another job?” Pallas asks when Damen requests floorplans for Michel Regent’s unlisted house in the woods.

“No,” Damen says. “I just need them.”

Pallas eyes him doubtfully. He opens and closes his mouth several times before speaking in a hesitant voice. “Hey, I know your father’s death really came as a shock, and I want you to know – Nik mentioned you were talking to the de Veres – I want you to know you can talk to us, yeah? We’re a team.”

Damen exhales carefully around the storm of emotion erupting in his chest. “Thanks. I appreciate it. But I just need the schematics as quickly as possible.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says at the wounded look on Pallas’ face, “but the less you know right now, the better.”

Pallas’ shoulders slump. “I’ll send the schematics to you,” he says, subdued. “And Damen? Be careful.”

_I hope you know what you’re doing_ , he doesn’t say. Damen turns and leaves in silence.

+++

Planning begins shortly. When Damen arrives at the now-familiar building, the youth at reception whose name, Damen learns, is Nicaise, waves him up with his habitual scowl. Pushing open the heavy wooden door to the unit, Damen sees Laurent leaning over the table, which is spread with glossy photos and various notepads.

“I never pictured you for a photographer,” Damen says in greeting, shucking his shoes and jacket at the door.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many faces.” Laurent turns to look at him. He’s backlit by the morning sun streaming in through the windows, lighting his blonde hair aflame and turning it to molten gold. He’s wearing a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong forearms, elegant wrists. This is the most skin he’s shown in their acquaintance. Dark jeans lend him a slightly casual air, while also making his legs look miles long. Damen licks his lips, aware he’s staring but unable to stop drinking in the sight before him.

“Coffee?” Laurent is arching one eyebrow expectantly.

“Yes,” Damen manages, “please.”

Laurent waves a hand. “It’s in the kitchen. Go make yourself some.”

The acerbity of his tone reminds Damen of exactly where he is and who he’s dealing with. He can’t allow himself to be distracted just because Laurent de Vere is blonde and looks nice in sunlight.

Coming back into the living room, coffee in hand, Damen feels more centered. He grabs his carrier bag and unfurls the schematics he’s brought over the table. Detailed architectural drafts are traced delicately over the thin sheets, measurements and schematics all lined up neatly.

“Regent’s place. I’ve marked in the cameras we saw and their projected areas of coverage.”

Laurent scans the documents eagerly, a small frown appearing between his brows. “There are virtually no blind spots over the entire perimeter.” If he were a different man, his tone would almost be petulant.

Damen makes an approving noise in the back of his throat and moves to look closer, calling up the memory of the house in his mind’s eye. “The trees were well back from the house as well. Very little branch cover there either.” He pauses, thinking.

“Wait, look – this window, here. The camera next to it moves in a 175-degree arc every three minutes. The guards start the changeover at half past five; we know it takes them up to seven minutes to come back…”

Laurent looks at him. ”They’d be walking to the front of the house, and the camera would be facing away from the window. We’d have a chance.” He looks at the paper again. “You saw where the camera was placed yesterday. Fairly high up but not out of reach, especially for a giant brute like yourself.”

Damen snorts despite himself. “Thanks, I guess.” Then he sobers, leafing through the photos they’ve amassed over their week-long stakeout. The window is a narrow square of darkness against the siding of the house. “The sprint from the edge of the trees to the house will take what, five seconds? Then we just have to disable the camera and get through the window before security gets back. It’s… plausible.”

Laurent is silent for a long moment, staring at the floor plans like they’ll reveal untold secrets to him. “Alright,” he says eventually. “We’ll go with that.”

They spend the next several days in a haze of planning and preparation. Damen is over at Laurent’s place more often than not; he tries not to let it feel too familiar. Laurent is a de Vere, after all. His witty comebacks and sly comments are nothing more than a mask, a façade. Damen knows this. He just wishes he could make himself believe it.

The petty thievery between them continues. Damen returns Laurent’s glove and steals his black fleece cap. Laurent retaliates by nicking his car keys, which leaves Damen cursing in the parking lot. As they’re reviewing schematics, Damen passes Laurent’s chair, setting down the small framed picture of Auguste as he does so.

Laurent’s eye catches it and he turns to Damen indignantly. “That was never on my person. You’re breaking the rules!”

Damen offers him an unapologetic shrug. “Don’t be mad cause I play your game better than you do, sweetheart.”

+++

“So we’re sure,” Damen says for the fifth time, as they’re hunched over the floorplan of Regent’s house, reviewing the layout and their intended path, “that Regent still has the poison he used on my father-”

“And his other victims.”

“And his other victims, and that it’s definitely in his house.”

Laurent levels a glare at him that could peel paint. “What kind of a fool do you take me for, Damianos?” he asks. His voice is low, deadly.

“I don’t,” Damen says, startled into honesty by the use of his name, “but my father’s life is on the line –”

“Your father is dead. It’s time you realized that.”

The words hit like a physical blow and Damen reels back. Pain and anger claw at his throat.

There must be something in his expression because Laurent curses under his breath and says, “That’s not what I – it’s not your father’s life on the line. Avenging him, yes, but the life in play is yours, Damen.”

That’s twice Laurent has used his name in as many minutes. Damen forces himself to inhale. He shoves past Laurent and heads for the balcony.

It’s raining outside, water lashing against the windows as the sky unleashes its fury. The wind is howling as Damen pushes open the glass door and steps onto the balcony. He’s soaked in mere seconds, but he doesn’t care. The wind and rain pummelling him are a needed distraction from Laurent’s words. _Your father is dead_.

He doesn’t know how long he stays out there, gripping the railing for dear life as the storm rages on around him and inside him. He’s soaked before he realizes it, shirt clinging uselessly to his chest as water runs down the back of his neck.

It’s well past sundown when he returns, sodden, to the apartment. His damp socks squelch against the polished floor.

“Your clothes are soaked.” Laurent’s voice heralds his arrival in the doorway. He’s let his hair down to fall around his shoulders. “I’ll get you a towel.”

“It’s fine,” Damen says, wiping at the water dripping into his eyes. “It’s just rain.”

“I won’t have you ruining my floors. They cost more than your life insurance policy is worth.” Laurent thrusts a towel at him. “There are spare clothes in the bathroom. Go.”

Damen goes. The towel is surprisingly soft. He strips quickly out of his wet clothes and dries off before donning the ones Laurent has left for him: joggers and a plain t-shirt.

“I’ll wash them,” he offers when he rejoins Laurent in the living room.

Laurent looks at him. A muscle twitches in his clenched jaw. “Of course,” he says after a moment. Damen moves over toward the table, tugging the hem of the t-shirt down as he does so. It’s probably an old one of Laurent’s, judging by the fit: it keeps riding up, exposing his midriff and if he moves, he can feel the flimsy fabric strain across his shoulders and chest – but it’s better than his own soaking wet clothes and Damen is grateful for that.

The small printer whirs to life on the table as Damen approaches, spitting out a sheaf of papers, which Laurent hands him without looking at him. Damen takes them wordlessly and begins to flip through what he realizes are grainy photos. The quality is poor to say the least: the pictures are largely out of focus and the lighting doesn’t do any favours – but the subject matter is clear. The dark hair and imposing physique is that of Michel Regent. He’s half turned away from the camera but his left hand is visible. In it, he’s holding a small glass vial.

“That could be anything,” Damen gets out. “It could be his vape water for all we know.”

Laurent doesn’t respond and doesn’t turn to face him so Damen continues looking through the photos. In the first, Regent is holding the vial. He’s standing in what looks like a sitting room of some kind: there’s the edge of a low sofa in the background, and a smudge that might be a framed oil painting. The next photo shows Regent moving toward the painting. His back is to the camera now and this shot is a little more in focus, as if the photographer hadn’t needed to rush as much. Regent reaches for the bottom corner of the giant painting. The final photo is completely zoomed in, more a collection of dark pixels than any recognizable image, but if he squints hard, Damen can just about make out the vague shape of a hand on top of a black box. A safe.

“These photos were taken by my source half an hour ago.”

Damen looks up at Laurent’s voice. He’s watching him with an inscrutable expression, blue eyes betraying nothing. The timestamp on each photo confirms Laurent’s words.

Damen sets the photos down “Okay,” he says slowly, “we could be onto something.”

+++

Damen consciously steadies his breathing as he pulls up to Laurent’s building. He’s forgone his own car tonight in favour of one of the burner cars he and Nik have scattered around the city. If he has to ditch it in the middle of the woods, there’s nothing to tie it back to either of them. He makes sure to follow the traffic laws to the letter on the drive over.

Laurent is waiting for him out front when he pulls up. Damen studies him closely as he gets in, looking for any sign of frayed nerves. He finds none. The cool mask is as impenetrable as ever. “Ready?” he asks.

Laurent nods sharply. “Let’s go.”

“Remember,” Laurent says after they’ve left the city behind, visible only by the distant glow in the rearview mirror, “if we get caught, the code word is Charls.”

A flare of jealousy ignites in Damen’s chest. “Who is Charls?”

The orange light of the streetlights plays over what could almost be a smile. “Just drive, my dear brute.”

The drive passes smoothly – almost too smoothly for Damen’s liking. They’ve managed to avoid the worst of the evening traffic, so the car hums along the tarmac in silence until they hit the gravel roads. Laurent doesn’t try to give directions for which Damen is grateful. He’s always been able to navigate best when left to his own devices.

Damen parks under the shadow of a large spruce and they get out of the car, shouldering their packs. The sounds of the forest surround them as they make their way to Regent’s house. Damen avoids the trip wire out of habit; he pulls up behind the thick trunk of a cedar tree, Laurent close on his heels. They survey the house together.

“No movement,” Laurent whispers, lowering his binoculars. “Nothing in any of the rooms I could see.”

“Perimeter’s clear,” Damen says, replacing his own binoculars in his pack. “No other car tracks apart from the ones leaving the garage.” He checks his watch: 5:27pm. “The guards are about to start their rotation.”

“Alright.” Laurent’s voice is steady as ever. “Changeover begins in three, two, one – now!”

As if on cue the guard patrolling the rear of the house where they are turns and begins sauntering back towards the front entrance. The camera begins its ponderous turn and Damen runs. Adrenaline spirals dizzyingly through his veins as he hones in on the target. The outer wall of the house is twenty feet away… now fifteen… ten… He doesn’t look back to see if the guard has seen him; he doesn’t let himself think about anything but the flat fiber cement siding of the wall he’s aiming for. Years of training allow him to soften his impact on the wall, absorbing the shock of his impact into the muscles of his arms and core. He’s made it.

Still, his task isn’t over. Damen reaches around his utility belt for his screwdriver and peers up at the underside of the camera. Nothing’s visible from the outside, but the plastic casing around the underside is easily removed with a flathead screwdriver to reveal the circuitry underneath. Carefully, Damen rises on tiptoes to slip a small metal pin between the gears of the motor. The gears jam, locking the camera in position pointing away from the window.

Task complete, Damen turns and gestures to Laurent at the edge of the clearing. Laurent sprints lightly across the lawn towards him and arrives barely out of breath.

The expression on his face doesn’t bode well. “We have a problem.”

“What?” Damen follows his gaze over to the small window that serves as their planned point of entry. It’s exactly where it should be nestled into the camera’s blind spot. But the detailed wrought-iron grate that covers it hadn’t factored into their plans.

Damen frowns at the [suggestively curved iron bars.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/296636758047588352/624486529787494400/unknown.png) “They look like-”

“Don’t say it.” Laurent curses under his breath. He’s peering around the building. “There must be a different way in.”

“It’s okay,” Damen says, “I got this.” He steps up to the grate, casting a critical eye over the bolts holding it to the wall. “It’s been shoddily attached. The weatherproofing’s been stripped here, and here.” There’s rust where he points. Damen places one hand on each side of the grate. “We’ll soon find out if there’s anyone home.”

He tenses his back muscles and pulls. The terrible sound of protesting metal rings out as the grate lifts free of its moorings and comes away under Damen’s hands.

He sets it carefully on the ground, nestling it behind a conveniently placed bush. When he looks back, Laurent is frowning hard at the path leading to the garage, where the security guard would be coming back from any minute.

“Aren’t you happy you brought me along now?” he can’t resist teasing.

Laurent still refuses to look at him. “That was… adequate.” He pushes past Damen, gaze fully averted, and starts to climb through the window. Casting one more glance out into the forest surrounding the house, Damen follows him. It’s a tight fit. The window – which leads into a bathroom – is narrow and Damen is not. He manages with a minor amount of lost dignity, which he counts as a win. He and Laurent creep to the door, listening for sounds of anyone else in the house. There are none.

“Let’s go.” Laurent’s voice is a hushed whisper. His breath ghosts over Damen’s skin.

They pad silently out from the bathroom, footsteps quiet on the dark tiled floors. Everything is pristine. The glass-fronted paintings that hang in the hallways are clear of any fingerprints or dust. Every inch of the floors has been waxed and polished to perfection. Damen rubs a gloved hand surreptitiously along the underside of one of the paintings, depicting what looks like a garish magenta starburst or perhaps the remains of a child’s popsicle. His fingertip comes away clean.

“I feel like I’m dirtying the place just by breathing,” Damen remarks quietly as they enter into the main drawing room. It’s a massive space spanning the width of the house with floor to ceiling windows on both sides. The floor is made up of smoky grey tiles patterned in such a way that they give the impression of standing on water. In the far corner of the room sits a grand piano, lid open like a giant wing, glossy and black. A mahogany-panelled mini-bar hugs one corner, the contents of which are probably worth more than Damen’s inheritance. The high ceilings yawn up into darkness overhead and Damen has the feeling of standing at the entrance to a cavern.

Laurent has already stalked ahead with all of the insouciance afforded him. The tight black cap covers his blonde hair, tucked up in a neat ponytail, but there are a few stray wisps of hair at the base of his neck. In another context it might have been charming, a reminder of the imperfect humanity that lurks under Laurent’s cool mask. As it is, Damen wrenches his attention away from Laurent’s neck and concentrates on following him through the cavernous room, towards the grand floating staircase on the far side.

The staircase leads up to another hallway, and the two men turn left, towards where the schematics indicate Regent’s study is.

Laurent pauses just before the lone doorway at the end of the hall. His gloved hand rests lightly on the mahogany wood. He catches Damen’s eyes and Damen nods. Laurent pushes open the door.

An elegant study opens up before them, facing an accent wall of deep teal. The rest of the room follows the same imperious design as the rest of the house: a small window overlooks the lawn to the left; in the daylight, it would let in sunlight to brighten the mahogany floors and fall beguilingly on the miniature statue that guards the corner by the door. The statue is of a young man – more a boy, really – posed naked in _contrapposto_ beside an eagle nearly as tall as he is.

The rest of the room is taken up by a large oaken desk and two leather chairs facing it. A low sofa occupies one side of the room, near the window; on it is a black hoodie, surely too small for Regent. Something pinches in Laurent’s expression when he sees it and Damen thinks he hears him curse under his breath, but he moves towards the far wall and the moment is forgotten.

An enormous painting spanning nearly the height of the wall behind the desk is the only departure from the apparent asceticism of Regent’s house. Damen has to crane his neck to see the top of the gilt frame.

“Benedetto Gennari’s _[Ganymede](https://necspenecmetu.tumblr.com/post/8843683737/benedetto-gennari-ganymede-c-1648). _I thought it was in a museum.”

Laurent exhales sharply. “A very good replica is, I’m sure. This one is the original.”

Damen looks again at the portrait. He doesn’t know what he’d expected – a portrait of Regent himself perhaps, dressed in the robes of a king, or solemn-faced in a suit as the CEOs liked to have hanging in their offices. This is nothing like that. The pale face of a boy is turned towards the viewer, half in shadow. He is bare-chested – in fact, naked, save for the two bolts of cloth, one white, one blue, draped over his lower half in a paltry preservation of modesty. His right leg is raised, bent at the knee, and the white cloth has slipped, revealing part of a pale thigh. In his hands, he is holding a large ornate vase: the water he was set by Zeus to pour, if Damen’s memory serves him. The gold of the vase is not nearly as arresting as the pale luminescence of his skin, white like moonlight. By the roundness of his cheeks and the soft planes of his body, the boy cannot be more than twelve.

“Did Regent ever have a son?” Damen asks after a moment of observation.

The response is almost immediate. “No.”

Laurent is carefully avoiding looking at the painting, Damen notices. Something like unease stirs in him at the sight but he pushes it down. Emotions can come later. Now is the time for action.

He strides over to the corner of the painting as Regent had done in the photos. The painting is hung in the dead center of the wall, but an experimental push has it sliding smoothly aside on oiled tracks **.** Set into the wall behind it is a small black safe, not more than a foot across. After everything, it’s almost anticlimactic.

“Seriously?” Damen says, “for this? I could just wrench it out of the wall and have done with it.”

Laurent makes a soft choked-off noise behind him. “I’m sure you could. But I’m afraid this requires more cerebral muscles than you possess.”

“You think so?” Damen retorts, but Laurent is already reaching into his pack for his tools. “Wait.”

Laurent freezes with one hand in his backpack. “What is it?”

“Look at this lock,” Damen says. “It’s group 2. You’d think someone like Regent would go for a higher security system than this in his inner sanctum.”

A crease appears between Laurent’s brows. “This is the same safe from the photos.” He looks up. “You think it’s a decoy.”

Damen looks at Laurent then back at the safe. “I don’t know. Only way to find out is to open it – put that away,” he commands as Laurent makes to draw a small auto-dialer from his pack. “We don’t have time for that. We can just manually manipulate it.”

“You have the subtlety of an ox,” says Laurent. “You couldn’t manipulate your way out of a paper bag.”

Damen ignores him and puts a hand on the dial. He spins it experimentally, feeling the slight catches as the spindle snags on imperfections in the pins. Here, a slight notch in the rod. There, a bit of drag. Damen lets out a slow, even breath as he works, feeling the minute changes in the dial beneath his fingertips that tells him he’s onto the start of the combination. Eyes half-lidded to study the dial, his world narrows to the increments of space between each number, the slight _click_ of each extraneous digit punctuated by the harsher _tick_ as he nears the correct number. Working exclusively by touch, Damen narrows the combinations down, feeling the unique catches and reverberations as the locking mechanism inside the safe responds to his movements.

Barely five minutes have passed before the lock gives a final _click_ as the last tumbler falls into place. Damen twists it triumphantly and the door of the safe swings open on silent hinges to reveal –

“What the fuck.”

The safe is empty. No glass vial, no poison. Damen thrusts a hand inside, hoping against hope to find something, anything to make their night’s venture worthwhile. “It’s not here.”

Laurent’s face is pale, even more so than usual. A muscle works in his jaw. “He must have moved it.”

Damen barely registers his words over his own harsh breathing. “You said it would be here. You told me it would be here. I-”

He’s cut off by the sudden piercing wail of an alarm.

“Shit.”

They look at each other. For an instant, Laurent’s expression is as hunted as Damen feels, raw in the face of this disappointment. The alarm continues to wail and Damen watches as Laurent carefully schools his mask back into place, blue eyes emotionless once again. “We have to get out.”

“No shit,” Damen hisses, closing the safe and redialing the lock. He steps back and shifts the painting into place with a light touch. He can hear booted feet pounding on the floor below them, the rough voices of security guards. “Where-”

“The window,” Laurent says, sprinting gracefully across the room to throw it open. “We can get onto the roof.”

Damen spins around to the door. “Grab that chair.”

For once, Laurent does as he’s told, picking the heavy leather armchair up with remarkable ease to set it against the door. Damen does the same, lugging the statue of the boy and the eagle over with no small amount of effort. It’s a makeshift barricade, but it will have to do. He and Laurent run to the window.

“There’s no one on this side yet,” Laurent says, peering out into the night.

He flings the shutter open and peers upwards. The eavestrough is a slim line several feet above their heads; the sheer face of the outer wall offers no handholds.

“I can’t reach that,” Laurent mutters, eyeing the distance from windowledge to roof with no small amount of displeasure.

“It’s okay,” Damen says, more confidently than he feels, “I’ll boost you.”

“You will _not_ -“ Laurent hisses but his words are cut off by the sound of footsteps pounding through the house.

“For the record,” Laurent hisses as he braces a foot against Damen’s interlocked hands, “I object to this. Strenuously.”

“That’s great, sweetheart,” Damen grunts from where his face is smushed into the wall. Laurent’s leg is braced against his chest from shin to knee and his other foot is pressing painfully against Damen’s shoulder as he tries to twist himself out the window. “Just get up there.”

Laurent finally manages to grab the edge of the roof; he swings himself up, booted feet narrowly missing Damen’s face as he does so, and hoists himself upwards with athletic grace that almost distracts Damen from the footsteps thundering down the hall. Adrenaline surges through him and he clambers out the window, reaching up for Laurent’s outstretched hand to help him onto the roof. No sooner has he crouched next to Laurent on the roof’s edge than the telltale crash of the barricade rings through the air from below.

“They can’t have got far!” A man’s voice is shouting from the study. A second later his silhouette appears from the window, peering out over the ground below. “It’s a two-storey fall, no way they’d take that risk-”

Damen thrusts himself back from the edge of the roof just as the guard looks upward. The force of his fall sends him toppling backwards onto Laurent and they go down in a tumble of limbs and muffled curses.

“Get off me,” Laurent hisses, shoving at Damen’s shoulders. Damen tries not to notice how warm his hands are between the gloves and shirt that separate them from Damen’s skin. One of Laurent’s legs is pressing up between his own, and even though he can hear the yelling as the security team pings to their location, all Damen can think about is every point of contact between their bodies. Laurent is warm and strong underneath him.

“The roof!” Their pursuer’s voice cuts through the snatched moment and Damen scrambles to his feet, extending a hand for Laurent who pointedly ignores it, rolling to a standing position with balletic grace.

They take off across the slanted rooftop, shoes skidding and slipping on the smooth metal panels. Damen feels the burn in his muscles as he leaps from ledge to ledge, feels the cold night air slicing through his clothes. The moon is shrouded in clouds, turning the world to shades of black and murky grey. Laurent is an inky silhouette in front of him, sprinting across the roof to the rear of the house where they’d first entered. Damen joins him, staring down at the two-storey drop. It’s survivable, but not without injury. The trees are about twenty yards away. Damen gauges his chances of making it to cover with a broken ankle. Then he gauges Laurent’s chances.

“Can you make it?” he asks, indicating the drop.

Laurent tosses his head. “Who do you think I am?”

_A spoiled brat_ , Damen opens his mouth to say, but he’s cut off by Laurent bending down to grip the eave and swinging himself over the ledge. Only years of practice prevent Damen from issuing a sharp cry as Laurent disappears from view. Heart hammering, he leans over the edge of the roof, expecting to see Laurent prone on the ground below. A flash of movement catches his eye and he looks over to the small drainpipe to see – Laurent, climbing down it as smoothly as if the flimsy metal siding were as sturdy as any ladder. Laurent reaches the ground and gestures to Damen. _Hurry up._

Damen crouches and tests the strength of the eavestrough. The metal is thin, tethered to the structure of the house by small bolts placed at regular intervals. It creaks unnervingly when he puts his weight on it.

Behind him, the sound of the pursuers’ boots across the rooftop grow louder and Damen realizes he is out of time. He takes a deep breath and drops over the edge.

Miraculously, the eavestrough holds for the handful of seconds it takes him to swing across to grab the drainpipe Laurent used to climb down. Damen foregoes all finesse on the descent, letting his boots scrape against the siding of the house as he slides down the pipe. He’s nearly halfway down when the metal gives a great groan and – _shit –_ starts to buckle away from the wall. Gravity sucks at him as Damen scrabbles for purchase on the weakened structure. His stomach gives a sickening lurch as the metal sags again. There’s nothing for it. Damen lets go.

He swears his heart stops during the fall, the few seconds of the descent turned into an eternity of terror and adrenaline as Damen hurtles through the air, trying to brace himself for the landing. He processes the world in snatches: the rush of cold air on his skin; the furious shouting of the guards above; Laurent’s pale face turned towards him with an expression Damen’s never seen; the ground rushing up to meet him.

He lands hard, feels the impact shudder all through his body even as he rolls with the momentum. There will be bruises tomorrow; if he’s lucky, that’s all there will be. But there’s no time to analyze that now. As soon as he’s on his feet, Laurent is there, tugging at his arm.

“Charls,” Laurent is hissing, “Charls, Charls.”

“Fuck Charls,” Damen snarls. “Just run!”

They pelt together towards the treeline. Damen runs as he’s never run before, certain that the rat-tat-tat of bullets will greet them with each step. Nothing comes, however, and they dive into the cover of the trees unscathed.

Adrenaline loosens its chokehold on Damen’s faculties as they reach the car and a slowly simmering anger begins to take its place. The leather of the steering wheel creaks under his fingers as his hands clench into fists and he curses himself for not foreseeing this outcome. All of their planning, and for what? An empty safe and a midnight flight across a jagged rooftop. Damen spits a curse, rounding on Laurent.

“You knew this would happen.”

“I didn’t,” Laurent says. His jaw is clenched tightly.

“Your source sent us those photos. You picked the timing of the job –“

“Every piece of information I posses pointed toward the poison being in the safe!” Laurent’s composure snaps and he raises his voice. “There was no indication Regent had moved anything or even been back in his study.”

There’s a warning edge to his voice but Damen is having none of it. “You said-“

“I _said_ I didn’t know for sure!” The words seem to pain Laurent as they’re ripped from him. “Everything I had said the poison would be there. I-“ his voice catches strangely. “I don’t know why it wasn’t.”

Damen has a chokehold on the steering wheel. A dull red rage pounds behind his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

The drive back to the city passes in a blur. Damen takes all the turns on autopilot, mind too busy replaying the night’s events to process where he’s going. Laurent is silent beside him, presumably also lost in his own thoughts. He breaks the silence when Damen drops him off, voice strange and hollow.

“Give it two days,” he says. “We’ll recoup.”

If Damen had been listening, he might have heard the question in Laurent’s voice. As it is, he only nods jerkily before peeling back from the curb and driving away.

It’s nearly two am by the time he pulls into his driveway, wheels crunching over gravel in a familiar sound. He’s calmer now, barely; the weight of exhaustion mutes the anger, turns the white-hot flame in his belly into a distant heat. The adrenaline of the chase has subsided and now he can feel the ache in his shoulder and left side where he’d taken the fall. It’s not until he’s reached the front door that he sees the sight spread out before him and recoils in horror.

His father’s house has been vandalized. The front door is unlocked, hanging askew as if hit with some incredible force. The front hall is a mess of splintered wood and shattered glass; the paintings of Damen’s family that had hung so proudly from the walls are torn and lie in shreds across the floor. A sickening fear rises in Damen and he forces himself to breathe past the nausea. He feels violated. This is his _home_.

Glass crunches underfoot as he makes his way into the dining room. The carnage continues here, decorative vases smashed into pieces on the floor and fine wooden furniture overturned and broken. Grief chokes him on the inhale as he sees the ruins of a vase of yellow orchids, his mother’s favourite, shattered on the tile.

Damen doesn’t know how long he stays there in the sacked house, watching the moonlight spill shadows across the wreckage. Distantly, he is aware that he’s not safe here – that whoever did this meant it as a sign, a warning, a threat. But his breath comes in rapid pants and he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest like some caged beast; it feels like it will explode at any moment. Shuddering, Damen sinks to his knees, trying in vain to catch his breath. He can’t move, can’t think, can only let the waves of pain wash over him, like a man lost at sea.

When he comes back to himself, there’s a dull pain in his hand. Looking down, he sees the glint of glass in the moonlight. A shard is embedded in his palm, probably from where he’d fallen to the floor. Blood trickles sluggishly from the wound; the ache tells him it’s deep. Damen doesn’t remove the shard, instead ripping the sleeve of his shirt for use as a makeshift bandage. He doesn’t want to give the police anything they can trace to him. Tripping over each shaking breath, he starts to realize this nebulous web he’s caught in is bigger than him and his father, bigger than him and Laurent, something he’s even now only beginning to grasp the edges of. Whatever’s going on isn’t something he can face alone.

Damen ditches his car in a parking lot off the main drag and walks the last few blocks to Laurent’s place. The newfound discovery of the plot surrounding him makes him more cautious than he’s used to. He doesn’t expect anyone to be in the lobby – hasn’t thought that far, if he’s honest with himself – but a familiar head of brown curls is sitting at the desk and Damen is spared his own introspection.

He raps twice on the glass with his good hand. Nicaise’s head shoots up from where he’d been hunched over his phone, blue eyes wide and mouth in a slight ‘o’ of surprise. His expression smoothes over as he recognizes Damen, the fear in his dark eyes quickly shuttered. The forced quelling of emotion is so like Laurent that Damen’s breath catches.

“What do you want?” Nicaise hisses as he unlocks the glass door, peering out to glare at Damen like he’s some type of nasty fungus.

“I didn’t know they had an all-night concierge here,” Damen says. “Fancy.”

“Fuck you,” Nicaise spits but his voice is thin and small and he can’t stop looking at Damen’s hand, which is still bleeding sluggishly. Damen cradles it close to his chest.

“I need – I need to see Laurent.”

Nicaise pauses for a moment, taking in Damen’s torn clothing, the makeshift bandage around his hand. Damen pretends not to notice his unsteady intake of breath. “Alright,” he says finally, moving aside so Damen can enter the dimly lit lobby.

Nicaise trails him to the elevator, gets in beside Damen and leans against the rail silently as they travel up to Laurent’s floor. They make a strange picture in the elevator’s mirrored walls: Damen, tall and hulking next to Nicaise’s slim figure.

“So,” he says awkwardly, trying to lessen the tension, “do you really stay here 24/7?”

Nicaise frowns fiercely at the floor. “No,” he says curtly. “I work here when I’m not at my internship.” He clarifies at Damen’s expectant look. “Police station.”

Neither of them says a word after that. Damen’s heart has hardly stopped trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.

Seeing the familiar door to Laurent’s apartment shouldn’t ease the tightness in Damen’s chest, but somehow it does. Nicaise beats him to it, slipping out of the elevator to pound on the door. Damen’s heart picks up its pace, if that’s possible, until it feels like the very air is shaking around him. Laurent is about to open the door. He hasn’t thought this far. The incongruity of the scene hits him: how it will look to Laurent, a battered and exhausted Damen showing up in the middle of the night side-by-side with Nicaise. After the terse scene between them in the car, he doesn’t even know if Laurent will let him in. He doesn’t have much time to think about it, however, because the door is opening and Laurent is peering out. Damen sees him in a series of snapshots: an elegant hand resting on the door frame, fine-boned wrist exposed; the slight shadow where the collar of his shirt gapes away from his throat, and the slim silver chain glinting underneath; the delicate arch of an eyebrow.

His blue eyes widen a fraction as he takes in the scene before him but his voice is perfectly level when he says, “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Damen really has not thought this through. “I-”

“You’re bleeding.” Laurent’s expression pinches inward. His voice is burnished steel. “Come in. You too.” The last bit is directed at Nicaise, who follows them inside, uncharacteristically quiet.

Damen is ushered to the bathroom, clutching his hand to his chest. “Thank you,” he tries to say, but Laurent cuts him off with a curt wave.

“Sit,” he says and Damen does, perching obligingly on the edge of the bathtub. “Let me see.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Damen finds his voice as Laurent crouches to rummage under the sink, emerging with a small first aid kit.

“You have half a windowpane stuck in your hand.”

“It’s not a windowpane.”

“Shut up.”

Laurent has washed his hands in the sink and dries them on the small blue hand towel. His movements are brusque and efficient. He comes to straddle the side of the bathtub, facing Damen. Despite his harsh words, his fingers are gentle around Damen’s wrist as he pulls Damen’s injured hand toward him, examining the cut under the bright light.

Damen sits absolutely still. His whole world has narrowed to the circle of those graceful fingers around his wrist, the gentle movements as Laurent examines his palm. He is afraid to move, half-afraid to breathe for fear of shattering the moment. Laurent has touched him before, but not like this. Not with such fierce intention.

Laurent’s voice cuts through the charged silence. His hands on Damen’s are gentle but his eyes are cold, the palest blue Damen’s ever seen, like ice under a winter sky. He curses himself inwardly for ever thinking, for ever hoping – “Who did this to you.”

Damen blinks, surprised. “No one,” he says truthfully. “It was my own fault.”

“Tell me.” Laurent’s voice is flat, completely devoid of any emotion. His face is pale, and absolutely, devastatingly calm. Something stirs uneasily in Damen’s stomach.

So he does. Words rush out of him like a river coursing over the edge of a waterfall. He tells Laurent of arriving home, hoping for some respite from the day’s events, only to see the chaos and carnage of his family home. The windows smashed and furnishings torn. The vase of his mother’s flowers, destroyed.

He doesn’t have words for the gaping hole in his chest, the feeling of floundering in empty darkness with nowhere to turn. Perhaps that’s just as well.

“So you came here,” Laurent says, voice absent the expected sarcasm and mockery. When he speaks the words, it sounds almost like understanding. Damen inhales an unsteady breath and nods, not quite trusting his voice.

Laurent has gone back to examining his hand. He folds a towel up neatly to sit between them on the bathtub edge and pulls out a small flashlight and a pair of tweezers. “It looks like there are some smaller pieces here too,” he says. He doesn’t chide Damen for not going to a hospital, for which Damen is grateful. He can’t handle that level of conspicuousness right now.

That’s about as far as Damen gets in his train of thought before he’s yanked back to the present by the sensation of Laurent pulling the glass shard out of his palm. He forces himself not to flinch back, but it’s a near thing.

Laurent gives no sign of being troubled, setting the shard on the towel. Droplets of blood soak into the white terrycloth.

Damen stares at the bloody glass. He stares at Laurent’s golden head as he bends to turn on his small flashlight. “Would you like me to hold that for you?”

Laurent pauses, tweezers in hand, flashlight held between his teeth. The light bounces up and down. Damen bites the inside of his lip, hard.

“Thank you,” Laurent says, passing the flashlight to Damen, who takes it, willing his body not to get excited over the novel image of Laurent with things in his mouth. The adrenaline of the day is starting to wear off; he feels fuzzy at the edges, not quite present in his own body.

Laurent snaps his fingers in front of Damen’s face. “Pay attention.”

Damen starts slightly, but obligingly straightens and aims the light at the palm of his hand where Laurent is focused, scanning for any stray pieces of glass. There are a few small slivers around the bigger cut and he makes short work of them, movements deft and precise. By rights Damen should be disgusted by the blood and the image of Laurent picking things out of his palm – but all he can think about is the gentleness with which Laurent is holding his hand steady, the way his breath ghosts over Damen’s fingertips.

The towel between them has collected several shards and a not insignificant amount of Damen’s blood by the time Laurent sits back, apparently satisfied that Damen has been fully scoured of glass. He balls the towel up and puts it in the garbage, then turns back to Damen. He’s uncapping a bottle, wetting a cotton cloth.

“This will hurt.” There’s something almost apologetic about the way he says it.

“Wha-” is as far as Damen gets before Laurent grasps his injured hand firmly and wipes the large gash with the cloth. Damen can’t stop his full-body flinch then as the white-hot burn of the alcohol sets in. The bathtub creaks alarmingly. He muffles a curse into his good wrist.

“Thank you for the warning,” he manages after the initial shock has subsided and the fire in his hand has lessened somewhat.

“You’re welcome,” Laurent says, dabbing at the smaller cuts on Damen’s palm. The cotton cloth is red now, soaked through with blood. It’s staining Laurent’s fingertips but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Would you rather have risked a blood infection?”

“No,” Damen says and Laurent falls silent. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Laurent tosses the cloth away and washes his hands again, the same perfunctory movements. “You’ll have limited movement in that hand while it heals.” He takes a small packet out of the first aid kit, tearing it open to reveal a butterfly bandage. He gestures for Damen to hold out his hand again, fingers gentle against his palm as he fastens the bandage onto the ruined skin. “There.”

“Are you going to kiss it better?” The words should come out like a joke. Damen means it as a joke, it _should_ sound like a joke and yet – and yet the way Laurent is staring at him now means it is anything but and Damen hears the deepening of his own voice as the words slip out.

They are so close. Laurent’s knee is a hairs-breadth from his. He is still holding Damen’s hand. Damen can feel every single point of contact of their skin, down to each dip and whorl of Laurent’s fingertips. Laurent’s lips are parted slightly and the overhead light catches on the fine gold of his hair, catches his eyes, turning the pale blue bright. He looks in that moment very young.

“You…” Laurent says, the ghost of a whisper. His breath brushes Damen’s cheek. The look in his eyes is unmistakable. Damen can feel his body heat. They are so close.

Damen leans in.

“Laurent!” The petulant shout shatters the moment into pieces as Nicaise thrusts himself through the doorway. “Are you done yet? I’m hungry.”

“You know where the kitchen is.” Laurent doesn’t turn around. His gaze bores into Damen, a diamond-tipped drill smashing through the fiberglass of his defences.

“I don’t want to cook,” Nicaise retorts, “Who do you think I am?” When this fails to provoke the desired response he scoffs and pushes away from the doorframe. “Fine. I’ll make eggs and set off the smoke alarm again. It’s not my name on the lease.”

Laurent curses under his breath. “Fine,” he calls to the kitchen where Nicaise has started banging pans around obnoxiously, “I’ll be right there.” He turns back to Damen.

“You have a very friendly relationship with your concierge,” Damen remarks. The intensity of the moment has passed but a strange energy hums between them now, as if the air is filled with static.

Laurent is putting the first aid kit away but stills for a slight second at Damen’s words. He doesn’t dignify Damen with an answer until he pauses at the door to look back at him. “It works for us.”

With that, Laurent sweeps out of the bathroom to prevent Nicaise’s presumably disastrous interaction with the oven. Damen, hand cleaned and newly bandaged, is left to his own devices. He turns in the direction Laurent has gone; something nameless tugs in his chest. Damen flexes his injured hand and the pain re-centers him. He takes his phone and heads out to the balcony.

The city glimmers beneath him like some kind of strange geode as Damen thumbs through his contacts and presses _Call_. Nik picks up on the second ring. “Damen,” he hisses, poorly disguised alarm sharpening his sleep-rough voice. “What the hell? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Damen hastens to reassure him. “Listen, I need you to do something for me. It’s urgent.”

“I swear to God, if you tell me we need to pull a job right now –”

“It’s nothing like that,” Damen cuts him off. “Not exactly. I need to you to drive to Dad’s – to my house, now. I can’t get there myself and I need a change of clothes. And call the cops when you get there. You’ll see why.”

“What the fuck! Do your own fucking clothes shopping.” Nik’s tone is low and dangerous now, the way it only gets when cops are involved. “You’ve gotta give me more than that, Damen. How the fuck do I know this isn’t some kind of trap?”

“Nik, please.” Damen doesn’t ask like this often. “I can’t explain everything right now, but I will, I promise. It will even make sense. Probably.”

“You fucking idiot,” Nik growls. And then: “I’ll text you.”

The line goes dead.

“That sounded productive.”

Damen spins around at the sound of Nicaise’s voice. “How long have you been there?”

Nicaise scowls at him, face shadowed in the darkness. “Long enough to hear you plotting behind Laurent’s back.”

“Excuse me?” Damen asks, thrown by the accusation. He tries to keep his voice calm even as his heart pounds. Nicaise can’t be more than sixteen. There’s no way he knows –

“Ooh, Nik, drive to my house. Call the cops, Nik. I’ll explain everything later, Nik.” Nicaise’s voice is a fluting, high-pitched mockery of Damen’s words.

“You have no idea what’s going on here,” Damen says.

Nicaise tilts his chin arrogantly. The gesture reminds Damen unnervingly of Laurent. “Oh, I think I do.”

Damen pushes past him. “I need to speak to Laurent.”

“He doesn’t want to speak to you,” Nicaise says. “He’s busy.”

Damen ignores him, heading for the kitchen. The long hours of the night are weighing on him but he forces back the exhaustion. There will be time for that later.

Distantly, he hears Nicaise say something that sounds like _big, stupid fuck_ but he tunes out the insults because Laurent is suddenly in front of him. Damen barely stops himself from crashing into him.

“I was looking for you.”

“I’d never have guessed.” Laurent’s voice is cool and even and gives nothing away. They’re a handspan apart and Damen can feel the pull of Laurent’s presence like a lodestone to north.

Damen makes himself speak. “We need to talk.”

Laurent inclines his head graciously to the dining room, currently free from Nicaise. “Then by all means,” he says, “let us talk.”

Damen looks at him. “We need a team.”

“We do not need a team.” The response is instantaneous and Damen can almost see Laurent’s defences going up, the emotionless mask slipping on like a second skin.

“Yes, we do.”

Laurent opens his mouth to speak but Damen continues with implacable logic. “If we’re going to continue this job, we need people covering all angles. Somehow, Regent knew we were coming; or else your source has been compromised.” Laurent’s jaw twitches at that. Damen continues. “We need people to shore us up, to help with tech, to watch our backs while we’re inside. Because if we get caught again, it will be shoot first, ask questions later.”

Laurent’s jaw is clenched so tightly Damen thinks it might break. But after a moment he squares his shoulders and speaks. “I’m used to working alone.”

“And you said you needed me for this job – which _failed_ , by the way – so how far do you think we’ll get into this second attempt before Regent’s security gets us? We can take bets. Do you think we’ll make it to the safe this time? My money’s on us not making it past planning before we get shot –”

“Enough.” Laurent’s voice is strained, shot through with something dark and heavy. Damen feels the well of anger in his chest begin to subside.

Laurent breathes a heavy breath out through his nose, perhaps the most frustrated Damen has ever heard him sound. “Fine,” he says, voice grating over the syllable. “But they do as I say or they’ll find out the hard way that I don’t like sharing.”

Damen nearly smiles. “I’m so glad you came around,” he says.

Laurent shoots him an icy glare. “Dare I ask why?”

Damen waves his phone, the text message notification bright on the screen. “Reinforcements are right downstairs.”

Nikandros arrives like the coming of a storm. He strides powerfully through the door, broad silhouette blocking the light from the hall. His long hair is slung into a low ponytail and he’s wearing old jeans and a grey Harvard hoodie. In one hand he has a small black duffle bag which he thrusts none too gently into Damen’s chest.

“We need to talk. Now.”

Damen takes one look at his friend’s face and knows that now is not the time to argue. Nikandros may be slower to anger than Damen but his temper burns just as bright. He feels Laurent’s gaze on the back of his neck as he ushers Nikandros to the sitting room, where they will at least have the semblance of privacy.

“Damen,” Nik rounds on him as soon as they’re alone, “you cannot be serious.”

Damen knows where this is going even as he asks. “About what?”

“De Vere?” Nikandros’ expression of utter loathing is one Damen has only seen once before, when he’d eaten the last of Nik’s Halloween candy in eighth grade. They hadn’t talked for a week. “You’re working with _Laurent de Vere_ , Damen are you fucking kidding me?”

“Keep it down,” Damen hisses, intimately aware of Laurent’s presence only a room away. “I can explain.”

“You have five minutes,” Nik says. There’s a dangerous spark in his eyes. “Or I swear to God I’ll call the cops right here for your own good.”

Damen explains. He tries, as best he can, to summarize the last few weeks spent arguing against, and then planning with, and then working alongside Laurent. Nikandros eyes him skeptically the whole time as if he is not entirely convinced Damen doesn’t have Stockholm syndrome.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

For the first time in a long while, Damen is at a loss. “I didn’t want you to be implicated,” he says, “if it fell through.” It’s the truth. Most of it. The other part, the deeper part has nothing to do with the legal consequences and everything to do with the glint in Laurent’s eyes, the way the world tilts dizzyingly on the quirk of his lips. Damen is not ready to think about what it means. He pushes it down, a deep ache centered somewhere around his heart.

Nikandros snorts inelegantly. “Seems like it already failed, given the situation at Theom- your house. Or were you just doing some interior decorating?”

Damen lets out a harsh breath, the sickening sight of his family home destroyed swimming before his eyes. “The poison wasn’t at Regent’s house. We think it may be in his office headquarters.”

“And you’re ready to risk your life – again – on this hunch? Why? Because Laurent de Vere is pretty and blonde?”

“It’s not like that.” For the first time, Damen feels a flame of anger kindle in his belly at his friend’s words. “Between Laurent and I, there’s nothing –”

“Damen, I have _seen him_.” Nikandros doesn’t try to mask the frustration in his tone. He looks at Damen’s forbidding expression and changes tactics. “And where is Kastor? Should he not be helping you clear your name?”

Damen grits his teeth, closes his eyes against the sting of his brother’s name. “Kastor is distancing himself from me publicly in order to protect his reputation. It is a sensible move.” He forces the words out.

“Is it.” Nikandros’ voice is flat. “If it were my brother –”

“He is not your brother.” Damen says, jaw clenched. “Enough. I know you’re trying to look out for me, but slandering Kastor solves nothing.”

Nikandros looks as if biting back his retort physically pains him but he swallows his words and nods once, curtly. “Fine,” he says after a moment, staring at a point over Damen’s shoulder. “You’re going to steal this poison from Regent’s HQ to clear your name and you want my help.”

“Yes,” says Damen.

Nikandros pinches the bridge of his nose. “When have I ever said no to you.” It’s not a question. His expression sobers. “If we are going to do this, then you have to be sure. You need to know de Vere can be trusted – that this whole debacle isn’t some set up, and that he won’t just use you to get to his own ends.”

“Don’t worry,” Damen says, forcing certainty into his voice “He won’t.”

+++

They all sleep after that, for what little of the night is left to them. Laurent relents enough to let Nikandros and Damen crash on the couches in the living room, though his expression makes it clear there will be a reckoning come morning. Damen gratefully changes into the spare clothes Nikandros has brought over and is asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

Morning comes far too swiftly. It’s barely nine o’clock when Damen is pulled from sleep by the sound of voices carrying from the kitchen. He enters quietly on stockinged feet, catches the tail-end of a conversation.

“-sure you can go through with it?” The voice is male, timbre low, assured. Damen doesn’t get to find out what the answer is, though; the conversation stops as he rounds the corner and comes into view of the kitchen. Three pairs of eyes turn towards him. Damen meets Laurent’s.

“Good morning.”

For a moment neither of them speaks. Damen takes in the scene: Laurent, backed by the marbled countertops, almost statuesque in his beauty. Morning sunlight spills across his skin, painting him in shades of ivory and gold. His hair is down, a bright blonde cascade spilling to his shoulders and framing the sculpted planes of his face. He’s wearing a buttoned up shirt despite the early hour, crisp starched fabric fastened neatly in place at his neck and wrists. Damen thinks of his hands, now resting impersonally atop the countertop. He thinks of those hands on his own, the care with which they’d placed the bandage. He thinks of Laurent’s eyes, the way they’d widened as Damen had leaned in. A bright bolt of yearning shoots through him like a lightning strike leaving behind only the scorched earth of his skin and a breathless, nameless want.

It’s a moment before Damen realizes one of the other men in the room is addressing him.

“So you’re the patricide everyone’s talking about.”

Damen sees red. He moves before he’s even aware of it, closing the space between himself and the stranger in one large step. “You-”

“Orlant, enough.” Laurent’s voice cuts the air and Damen stops in his tracks, balled fists unclenching.

Orlant scowls as if it’s embedded on his face, thick brows drawing together over dark eyes. He doesn’t say anything but subsides back into his seat, never taking his eyes off Damen.

Laurent, apparently oblivious to the tension the encounter has caused, turns and introduces Damen to the other people sitting around the kitchen island. Jord is a tall, grizzled man, with hair the colour of sand shot through with streaks of grey. Lazar is a younger man, not much older than Laurent himself by Damen’s guess. He lifts his chin in greeting as he is introduced. From the introductions, Damen learns that Jord, Orlant and Lazar are Laurent’s go-to team for a heist. They’ve come from varied backgrounds to end up here, clustered around the kitchen island in the morning light.

A noise from the hallway alerts Damen to Nik’s presence half a second before he enters the room. His long hair is tied up in a simple ponytail and he assesses the room with an inscrutable gaze.

Introductions are made a second time as Nikandros crosses the room to lean against a far wall, the thin fabric of his grey t-shirt stretching over his biceps as he crosses his arms. “I still don’t trust you.” This remark is addressed to Laurent.

“Luckily, I don’t need your trust; only your cooperation.” The retort is instant.

“How can you work with him –” This is Orlant again, apparently pushed to the breaking point by Nik’s barb.

“He has forgiven me for the small matter of the press smear. I have forgiven him for the small matter of precipitating my brother’s death. That is the nature of this alliance.” Every word falls like a shard of glass from Laurent’s lips, beautiful and deadly. Damen tries not to wince.

“Lovely,” Laurent says into the brittle silence that follows, as if he has not just eviscerated Damen in front of everyone. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He strides from the room, not looking back to see if they are following.

Damen gestures helplessly at Laurent’s retreating back and Lazar snorts softly beside him. “Don’t take it personally,” he says. “He’s just like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d go to jail for him – but that doesn’t make him any less of a cast-iron bitch.”

Damen is saved having to respond by the doorbell ringing. Laurent turns to him from down the hall, one eyebrow raised in question.

“It’s okay,” Nikandros says from the corner, “this one’s with us.”

He opens the door to greet Pallas whose wavy hair is swept up in a messy half-bun. He’s wearing a bomber jacket and tight jeans and in one hand he’s carrying a large black duffle bag.

“The less I know, the better, huh?” he quips at Damen as he pushes past him into the apartment.

Damen shrugs apologetically. “It was true at the time. Need a hand with that?”

Pallas doesn’t answer, staring at a point over Damen’s shoulder like he’s been poleaxed. Damen turns; it’s just Lazar. Belatedly, he realizes introductions are in order. “Oh, yeah, Pallas, meet everyone. Laurent, Jord, Orlant and Lazar.” He gestures to each of them in turn but Pallas still hasn’t lost that slightly dazed look.

Lazar stalks forward, hand outstretched. The sleeves of his light blue Henley are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms and wrists bedecked with a multitude of hemp and leather thongs. “Hi.” His eyes never leave Pallas’ face and his voice drips honey and Damen begins to get the rapidly-forming picture. “Pleased to meet you.”

Damen looks across the room to see Nikandros bury his head in his hands.

+++

Planning is a long and arduous process. Jord and Orlant are put on recon to track Regent’s actions and whereabouts. When they return several days later with a bead on Regent’s phone records, everyone clusters around the dining room table again to listen in on a recorded phonecall.

“What about the _flamnoir_?” a deep male voice asks.

Regent’s voice is brassy and indistinct over the crackling connection. “I have it in my office. Whoever attempted to break into my house will be thoroughly dissuaded from continuing their efforts.”

“We couldn’t trace the other guy,” Jord says, leaning back in his chair as the recording ends. “It was a burner phone and for all intents and purposes, he’s tossed it. It’s probably in a dumpster somewhere.”

Nikandros nods. “So we know where the poison is. Now, we can really get to work.”

Despite himself, Damen can’t help the small surge of hope at his friend’s words. If they know where the poison is, they can get to it. Maybe then the waking nightmare can end.

+++

“There are no schematics of the office building publicly available,” Laurent muses, tapping a pen against the notebook he keeps by his side constantly. His writing is an elegant scrawl on the page.

Across the room, Orlant slams his laptop closed in frustration. “I can’t find anything on the building. The RECB, Marlas Housing, the city planning commission – none of it has any info, not even zoning requirements. He could have a thermonuclear reactor in there and we wouldn’t know about it.”

“Or a shark pit,” Lazar pipes up from the corner and promptly ducks as Pallas chucks a pen at him.

“I spoke to my guys at the city council and even they don’t know anything – or if they do, they’re being paid more than I can offer to keep their mouths shut about it.” Orlant scrubs a hand over his face. “Not even a single loose security feed to hack. Fuck.”

Damen frowns. “There’s an easier way to do this,” he says. Laurent looks up from his notes. “It’s an office building in the downtown core. We can just walk in.”

“Not _us_ , obviously,” he amends seeing the incredulous look Orlant is shooting him. “Someone Regent and his people don’t know, like Pallas and Lazar. Or –”

“No,” Laurent cuts him off, folding his notes away. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that sets Damen’s heart pounding. “You could be on to something.”

That’s how Damen finds himself walking up to Regent’s offices the next afternoon. He runs a hand self-consciously down the soft brocade of his tie, smoothing the already pristine fabric.

“Relax,” Laurent’s voice in his ear nearly makes him jump. The earpiece he’s wearing is nearly invisible, a tiny lump of dark plastic to match his skin, but the sound quality is incredible. It sounds as though Laurent is right beside him, whispering into his ear. The thought makes Damen repress a shiver. “You’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” Damen mutters, careful not to move his lips. The microphone is hidden in the button at his lapel, invisible against the dark fabric of his suit jacket.

“Eyes up.” That’s Nikandros’ voice. Damen imagines him having to wrest the microphone from Laurent and he fights down a smile. “We need to see everything.”

Damen obediently lifts his head, scanning the lobby under the guise of being impressed by its grandeur. It’s only half for show. The vaulting ceilings and white marble walls give the lobby the feeling of being several stories high, and the sleek metallic light fixtures and delicate chrome inlays show no expense has been spared in pursuit of the aesthetic. He makes sure to do a complete 360, sweeping his gaze into all the corners as unobtrusively as possible to see any security cameras. The contact lens in his right eye appears as nothing more than vanity; in reality, however, it’s a microscopic camera, one of Pallas’ prototypes. It had stung like all hell going in, but it gives Laurent and the rest of the team a live video stream of everything Damen looks at. Damen rounds an immense silver statue in the shape of a double helix and approaches the reception desk.

“Hi,” he says, flashing his trademark smile at the young woman sitting there, “I’m here for Regent Inc.”

True to form, the girl blushes prettily and directs him to a bank of elevators off to the left. “Floor 34.”

Damen scopes out the routes as he heads to the elevators. There’s a small metal door at the back of the hallway marked STAIRS and for a moment he entertains the thought of taking the long way up.

“Don’t do it,” Laurent says. “The last thing we need is – wait, a janitor. Nod to him.”

Damen does, inclining his head as the man passes. He focuses on the man’s security badge for the half a second he’s able, hoping it’s enough.

“That should do us,” Pallas’ voice comes through. “Make sure you look up in the elevator. I’m sure they’ll have cameras there, but I also want to check the stability of the compartment roof.”

“This sounds like you’re going to have us scaling an elevator shaft,” Damen remarks, not unkindly. The idea, rife with risk and bravado, is fairly appealing.

The ride up to the 34th floor is long enough for Damen to get a good look at all parts of the elevator under the guise of adjusting his suit.

“Your suit is _fine_ ,” Laurent hisses after Damen brushes an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder for the umpteenth time. “If you move any more you’ll rip the damn thing.”

Damen barely resists chuckling and instead allows himself a smirk at the mirror. “Was that a compliment?”

Laurent’s indignant reply is cut off by the doors chiming open at the 34th floor. Damen steps out into yet another marble foyer and heads for the long desk proclaiming _REGENT INC._ on its side in sleek chrome letters.

“Excuse me.”

The receptionist – a young man, barely out of his teens - perks up at the sound of his voice. “How can I help you, sir?” His voice breaks slightly and Damen wonders if he’s even finished puberty yet.

“I’m here to see Michel Regent. I’m his two-thirty.” Damen imbues his words with every ounce of entitled businessman he can muster while trying to stealthily peer over the desk at the computer screen. The receptionist gives him an odd look and Damen pretends to be very interested in the windows on the far wall.

“Move your eyes,” Pallas again in his ear. “I’m seeing a camera in the far corner and I’m betting there’s one over the desk. Are there more we’re missing?”

Damen flicks his gaze over to different parts of the room. He doesn’t dare speak with the receptionist so close.

“If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Regent will receive you shortly.”

Damen strolls over to one of the low leather couches off to the side and grabs a magazine from the coffee table in front of it. His back is to the corner now and he can see the full length of the reception area, from the back of the reception desk to the entryway.

“What a prick,” Pallas says in Damen’s ear. “Hang on, I’m gonna –”

That’s all the warning Damen gets before a shock in his right eye almost makes him yelp. He manages to mostly smother a hiss of pain. “Pallas, what the hell?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Pallas genuinely sounds sorry, and Damen wonders absently if he’s being threatened for nearly causing Damen to give the game away. “I had to zoom. Damen, look at the central light fixture again.”

Damen does and only barely remembers to keep his face neutral. The view from the contact lens is magnified about five times – Pallas really had zoomed the lens. “That’s incredible,” he whispers, knowing Pallas will pick it up from the vibrations in his throat.

“Thanks,” Pallas says. “Uh oh, incoming.”

Michel Regent is stalking over towards him. Damen masks another flinch as Pallas resets the lens just in time for him to stand and clasp Regent’s extended hand in a firm handshake.

“Get a good grip,” Pallas instructs. “The SkinPrint needs a few seconds to get the impression of his palm. And remember, once you have his handprint, _don’t touch anything else_.”

“Mr. Akielos,” Regent says. His voice is deep and warm, the kind that inspires trust easily. If he questions the extra second of contact between them, he gives no sign of it. “Welcome.”

Damen grits his teeth in a smile, hoping it distracts from the handshake. The soft prosthetic he’s wearing on his right hand is designed to mimic the look and feel of human skin, while mapping the minute ridges and indentations of anything he touches. It had cost Pallas a small fortune. “Mr. Regent. Thank you for having me.”

Regent smiles, teeth white against his dark beard. “The pleasure is all mine. And please, let’s not stand on formality. Call me Michel. Come, we can talk privately.”

Turning, Regent strides away, not looking to see if Damen follows. He moves past the reception desk and down a wide hallway lined with glass-walled cubicles. Employees are typing away frantically on laptops and shuffling sheafs of paper in their fishbowl setup, apparently oblivious to the outside world watching their cubicles. Damen does his best to catalogue everything while keeping pace with Regent, whose long legs carry him forward through the hall. They pass through a door at the far end of the corridor. It’s a solid sheet of frosted glass inset in a steel frame. The door is unmarked but as Regent places his palm on a hand scanner beside it, and then pauses for a retinal scan, Damen realizes where they are.

“Welcome to my office,” Regent says as the door slides silently aside. Damen enters into a large, airy room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls. Of course Regent would have a corner office. The decoration in the room is much like that in the study: muted tones of cream and grey with statement pieces that draw the eye. Dark panelled bookshelves line the right-hand wall, full of weighty, gold-edged tomes, the type most businessmen keep in their offices for show rather than because they might need to brush up on Keynesian economics. Two white leather couches are set up around a small table in the center of the room, and a large oaken desk is silhouetted against the far windows.

“Please, have a seat.” Regent is the epitome of courtesy as he ushers Damen to one of the low couches. Damen sits obligingly, though his height means his knees are crunched up nearly to his chest in an almost comical position.

Regent drapes his pale grey suit jacket over the back of the other couch and moves to a small bar cart in the corner of the room.

“It’s not often the son of Theomedes Akielos pays me a visit,” he says. “Still, I have just the drink for the occasion. Sixteen-year Lagavulin.”

He doesn’t give Damen time to answer before decanting the bottle and pouring a hearty measure into two tumblers. While he’s occupied, Damen takes the opportunity to scope out the room, looking for anything unusual, anything out of place.his gaze immediately gravitates to the desk but Laurent’s voice pulls him back.

“Too obvious,” he says, “check the bookshelves.”

Damen twists around in his seat under the guise of stretching. He stares at the bookshelves behind him and tries to find anything that might indicate the presence of a secret compartment or a hidden safe.

“Can I help you?” Regent’s voice is suddenly very close. Damen whips around. He half expects Regent to discern his intentions or question him further but the other man’s face doesn’t move from its expression of polite blankness. It’s more than a little unnerving.

He offers one of the tumblers to Damen who takes it, left-handed, with a nod of thanks.

“Be careful,” Laurent hisses in his ear, “it could be –”

“To the future,” Regent lifts his glass in salute.

“To the future,” Damen echoes and takes a sip.

“You idiot,” Laurent curses venomously, but a further reprimand is cut off as Regent speaks again.

“So, Mr. Akielos,” he says, crossing one leg over the other. “How has life been treating you these past weeks? I was so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He was an inspiration to us all.”

_Do not talk about my father_ , Damen wants to snarl. He contains himself. “Please, call me Damianos. Mr. Akielos was my father.” The words sting in his throat but he continues. “Thank you for having me here. I know it is… unorthodox. But I feel Delpha Inc. could have a great friend in Regent, as the companies continue to grow together.” The rehearsed words fall easily from his lips. It had been agreed that meeting with Regent without anything to offer would be highly suspicious; yet, at the same time, the offer had to be modest enough that Regent wouldn’t actually follow through with it. Nikandros’ suggestion to talk about parallel economic trajectories had been a good one, even if Laurent hadn’t admitted it out loud.

Regent’s eyes are emotionless, giving nothing away. If he is disappointed with the offer he hides it well. “A quid pro quo.”

“Something like that,” Damen says. He sips at his scotch again, letting the earthiness of the peat ground him. “I think we both have strengths to bring to the market.”

Regent smiles thin and sharp like the blade of a knife. “You think Delpha and Regent can work alongside each other. An alliance.”

“A cap on the market,” Damen affirms. “We’d trade no higher or lower than the other. Together we have the strength to corner the market and force out startups, meaning we’d maximise our profit margins.”

“Within a range,” Regent says softly. He’s looking at Damen with almost predatory intent. He brings his scotch to his lips and sips, never taking his eyes off Damen.

Damen holds his gaze. Whatever darkness is glittering in Michel Regent’s eyes now, he can’t decipher, but dropping his gaze now feels tantamount to prodding a sleeping tiger. He does his best to school his face into a blank mask, letting only affirmation shine through.

“I must say, Damianos,” Regent’s voice curls around his name, proprietary, almost possessive. Damen blinks against the sudden burst of static in his ear, a frustrated breath from Laurent. “I did not expect trade talks from you.”

Damen swallows, tries to appear genuine. “It’s what my father would have wanted.” The words feel heavy, lodged in his throat.

“Indeed,” Regent says, and falls silent. For a moment neither of them speak.s

“I will consider your terms.” It’s as clear a dismissal as any.

“Hold his gaze,” Pallas commands, “I’m calibrating a 3D scan of his eye.”

“When can I expect to hear from you?” Damen asks quickly, keeping his eyes on Regent’s as he tries to draw out the moment. He feels the jolt of the contact lens zooming in and tries not to wince.

Regent spreads his hands apologetically, every inch the conciliatory businessman. “Unfortunately, my schedule is tight for the next few weeks. I can’t give you a definite date at this time.”

“Just a bit longer,” Pallas hisses. Damen continues to stare at Regent; his eyes burn with the effort of not blinking.

The moment stretches beyond comfortable and Regent’s eyes narrow. “Is something wrong, Damianos?”

“No,” Damen forces out quickly, “I was just-“

“Got it!” Pallas’ crow of triumph nearly deafens him.

“Going,” Damen finishes lamely.

Regent’s posture eases minutely and he settles back onto the arm of the couch. “Don’t let me detain you.”

Turning his back to Regent as he leaves the office feels like baring himself, prey to a predator, but the expected blow never comes. Damen leaves the office unscathed, hearing the door slide closed with a muffled click behind him. He takes the opportunity of being unescorted to scan as much as he can of the rest of the building as he leaves. There are several small divots in the ceiling of the hallway leading to Regent’s office. They could be innocuous architectural flair but Damen eyes them closely nonetheless in case they turn out to be hidden cameras. He sweeps his gaze around the reception area and the elevator lobby. Thankfully, there are no biometric security systems here and the descent is easy; nonetheless, he remains on edge until he emerges from the towering building and into the washed out afternoon sunlight.

+++

“That went well,” Jord says when Damen gets back to Laurent’s. The footage from his contact lens is projected on Pallas’ multiple screens.

“Did it though?” Lazar snipes. “We only saw Regent’s office for like five minutes and we still don’t have eyes on the poison, or even a safe.” He quiets at a nudge from Pallas.

Jord ignores him and Damen does too in favour of picking his way cautiously through the chaos that’s become the living room. The morass of wires and electronics is at odds with the minimalism of the rest of the flat, but Damen is swiftly distracted from the incongruities of the setup by his knee brushing Laurent’s as he sits down. Suddenly their kneecaps knocking together is all Damen can focus on. His breath catches somewhere in his throat. He lowers himself to the sofa, wondering if he can really feel the warmth of Laurent’s skin through two layers of clothing or if it’s just his imagination.

They spend the next several hours combing through Damen’s video feed, familiarizing themselves with what they know of the building’s layout and security measures. Damen’s attention is half on Jord and Nik as they trade insights on the heist and half on the feeling of Laurent beside him and the way he tenses as on screen Damen takes a sip of Regent’s scotch.

“That was stupid,” he hisses as the shot shows the drink raised to Damen’s lips. “You went in blind, there was no telling what he might have put in there.”

His tone is one of detached admonishment but there’s a tightness at the corner of his eyes that gives him away.

“You were worried about me.” The words feel almost like a revelation.

Laurent scowls. “Absolutely not,” he says.

Damen is smiling; he can feel the grin on his face. Off to the side he is aware of Nikandros glaring at him. He doesn’t care.

His good mood is tamed as they trawl through each frame of the footage, marking entrances and exits and making note of every security detail. There are CCTV cameras everywhere, from the grand entrance lobby to the elevators, including one directly outside Regent’s door, its beady eye roaming the hall.

“Fifty bucks that one’s on its own feed,” Pallas mutters, glaring at the device on screen as if it’s personally offended him. “Regent doesn’t strike me as the type to appreciate other people knowing his whereabouts.”

They replay the footage from Regent’s office again, all eyes trained on the screen to spot any hint of a lockbox or safe. Orlant frowns as Regent’s face comes into the frame again, expression eerily blank. “He’s got no tells. He’s got a powerful rival in his office and he can’t even be arsed to flick his eyes anywhere, the bastard.”

“Wait.” Laurent’s gaze is riveted to the screen as Damen scans the office through his contact lens. “There. The bookshelf.”

Pallas zooms in quickly to where Laurent is looking. The resolution sharpens and suddenly the rest of them see what he’s looking at: the slightest protrusion of a hinge in the bookcase shelf.

“Good eye,” Damen says with feeling. Even Nikandros makes a noise of agreement from his chair.

Finding the location of the safe helps immensely but it’s still several more days before they’re ready to go. Pallas double- and triple-checks all of their electronic gear and prepares prosthetics to fool the hand and retinal scanners; Jord and Nikandros draw up schematics and maps of the paths each person will take through the building; Lazar makes several trips to a nearby hair salon and, when questioned about it incredulously by Nikandros, only answers, “Supplies.”

The game between Damen and Laurent goes on. Shoelaces, wallets, pens and scarves are stolen and swapped between them almost daily. That’s how Damen finds himself undoing the delicate clasp of Laurent’s silver necklace while Laurent is sleeping at the table after days of tireless planning. The rest of the team is out on various errands; Damen thinks Laurent would never be caught dead sleeping otherwise. His hair is down, scooped to the side of his neck and the metal of the chain winks brightly in the light like an invitation. It’s the work of a moment to step up to him and unhook the small eyelet. The chain is still warm from Laurent’s skin when it pools into Damen’s hand. For a moment his hand hovers above the pale skin of Laurent’s nape, the wisps of fine blonde hair. The urge to touch nearly overpowers him but Damen recovers himself, drawing back. Maybe if things had been different between them. Maybe in another life.

The night before the heist, everyone is on edge. Lazar is pacing enough to wear a hole in the dining room floor. In the kitchen, Orlant is chain-smoking, filling the room with a blue-grey haze. Nikandros sits at the dining room table, frowning down at the maps they’ve drawn up of Regent’s offices.

Laurent is on the balcony. There’s a small fire escape off the one side, the remnant of a bygone zoning era; its iron bars are caked with rust. Laurent is perched on it, posture one of familiar negligence, with one foot drawn up beneath him and the other dangling off the ledge. He doesn’t look up as Damen approaches.

“Ready?”

Laurent is silent and for a moment Damen wonders if he’s heard him. He looks down at the twinkling lights of the city spread out before them, a million white and orange stars.

“Yes,” Laurent says eventually. “Are you?”

Damen thinks of his father’s pallid face in the hospital bed. He thinks of the slow wasting, the poisonous whispers at the funeral, the attacking cries of the press. _Murderer_. The notes on his door. His mother’s orchid dying in its broken vase. Regent’s face, blank and sinister.

“Yes.”

There is silence between them for a while. The moon shies out from behind its cover of cloud; it soaks Laurent’s hair in a silver light. He looks good like this, Damen reflects. Staring across the city, he looks almost peaceful. The nameless ache in Damen’s chest pulls at him.

“Here,” Damen says, “I’m returning it.”

“Thank you,” Laurent says. His fingers close around the silver chain that dangles from Damen’s grasp. For a moment, Laurent doesn’t pull and Damen doesn’t let go; the fragile chain is caught between them, suspended.

“So,” Damen says after a moment, “we’re even now.”

“How do you mean?”

Damen gestures to the chain, a half-hearted sketch through the air. “I’ve returned it. I have nothing of yours; you have nothing of mine. We’re even.”

Laurent says nothing, passing the chain through his fingers. It glimmers in the darkness, a delicate rope of starlight.

“Even. Is that what we are?”

“I think,” he says, and this time the words are almost painful, “had we met a different way, under different circumstances… we could have-“ He breaks off. “I would have met you as a man. Not only as my father’s son. It could have been different between us.”

Laurent’s head is turned, his expression in shadow. “You are a good man, Damianos. Hold onto that.”

He stands up in one fluid movement and for an instant they are eye to eye. Something burns in Damen’s chest, a bright yearning, and all he wants to do is press Laurent against the railing, to taste his lips and share his breath. A thousand words cross his mind: _I want you_ and _be mine_ and _I’m sorry_.

Laurent edges past him and the moment fades, and Damen is left alone under the night sky.

+++

Regent’s building looms up before them in the dark, a cold monolith of cement and steel and glass. They bypass the main entrance to the lobby in favour of a side door down a narrow alley. DELIVERIES ONLY is stamped across the metal in chipping yellow paint. Nikandros looks around and knocks three times in quick succession. The door is yanked open and Lazar peers out at them, carefully coiffed hair at odds with the grimy janitor’s uniform he’s wearing.

“Come on, then,” he whispers, ushering them inside, “let’s get this party started.”

They file in behind him as he pushes the cleaning cart down a long hallway. Nikandros eyes Lazar’s uniform dubiously. “You’re sure no one saw you take it?”

“Absolutely,” Lazar answers cheerfully. “I lounged around the back entrance, bummed a smoke, slipped in when no one was looking. They have tons of spare uniforms, and it was easy to palm the security badge. Pallas has had eyes on us since mid-afternoon. Well, a bit more than eyes on some of us-”

His suggestive tone is cut off by Pallas’ embarrassed static, loud in their earpieces. “I’m controlling the cameras,” he confirms from where he’s parked in the van three blocks away. He’s hacked the CCTV feed on the ground floor and in Regent’s suite and is playing a loop of the after-hours emptiness of the lobby. “You guys can head on in.”

“How are we doing for security?” Jord asks in a whisper. The button mic at his throat transmits his voice to Pallas clearly.

“So far, so good,” is the reply. “Two guards got into the elevators for the second floor; they’re doing a routine sweep. The guy in the lobby just went for a smoke break and no one’s at reception.”

They take that cue to cross the wide expanse of the back of the lobby, footsteps echoing slightly in the cavernous space. They slip into the elevator bay.

“Pallas,” Damen says, “do you have eyes inside the elevators?”

“Negative,” he answers. “I can see you guys in the bay but that’s it.”

“The stairs, then,” Damen decides and they push through the narrow door at the other end of the space. “Lazar-“

“I’m on it,” Lazar says before Damen can complete his sentence. He wheels the bulky janitor’s cart around to an empty elevator. “I’ll keep eyes on the guards. Wait - you’ll need these.” He reaches into the depths of the janitorial cart and pulls out several cans of – Damen squints – is that hairspray?

“Thanks,” he says as he accepts his can. The bemusement must show on his face because Laurent speaks for the first time.

“It helps detect trip wires. Lasers. Things that would otherwise be invisible to the naked eye.”

Damen slips his can into the holster on his belt. He thinks back to Regent’s house, to the invisible trip wire. “Clever,” he says, appreciation deep in his voice. “It can also help Nik with any impromptu styling needs.”

This gets a sliver of a smile from Laurent and a death glare from Nik. Damen counts it as a win and he, Laurent and Nikandros follow Jord into the stairwell.

For all the grandeur of the lobby and Regent’s offices, the effort has obviously been spared here: the stairs are simply concrete with plain iron railings. Nothing adorns the grey walls except the red EXIT signs above the door and the bare halogen lights set into each landing.

“Thirty-fourth floor, then,” Jord says grimly. “Let’s go.”

They climb in silence. There are no cameras in the stairway, which suits their purposes just fine. As they climb, Damen is constantly on edge, listening for the slam of a door, the sound of steps out of cadence with their own – anything to indicate they’ve been followed. The look of distant concentration on Laurent’s face says he’s doing the same. Once or twice he looks at Damen and opens his mouth as if to speak, but each time he turns away in silence. Damen aches to hear those unspoken words; but instead he focuses on the burn in his legs, and forces himself to climb.

They make it to the floor without incident. Huddled on the small landing, they wait for Pallas’ signal to proceed.

“Lazar, where are you?”

Lazar’s response comes in a soft burst of static. “Still have eyes on the guards. They’ve swept the second floor; they’re grabbing coffee at a vending machine here by the elevators. You’re good to go.”

“Alright,” Pallas says. Damen hears the distant clacking of keys on his end. “Okay, guys, you can enter.”

On cue, Nikandros leans over and cautiously pushes open the door. The hinges are well-oiled and make no sound. He, Damen and Laurent slip out into the bank of elevators in front of Regent’s suite. “Jord-“

“I know,” Jord affirms calmly. “I’ll keep a lookout here.”

Nikandros nods. “We’ll be quick.”

The remaining three set off down the short hall towards Regent’s domain. The floor to ceiling windows in the reception area show the splendor of the city beneath them, pinpricks of light in the darkness. The air is quiet save for the background hum of the air conditioning units. They move carefully through the hallways, navigating the world of glass and shadow. Damen is alert every step of the way, constantly scanning their surroundings for any beeping monitor, any blinking light that shouldn’t be there. They keep a cautious pace but finally reach the long corridor that marks the way to Regent’s office.

“I’ve got the camera covered,” Pallas says. “You guys just worry about getting in.”

Nikandros puts a hand to his ear. “Copy that.” He moves to take the first step into the hall but Damen grabs him back.

“Careful,” he says, a mere whisper. He looks up and Nikandros follows his gaze. In the ceiling, small red lights are blinking like angry stars.

Laurent is unhooking the canister of hairspray from his belt. He shakes it vigorously. “Here goes,” he says, and depresses the nozzle. The spray shoots out, filling the air with a sticky, fog-like haze that smells disconcertingly of raspberries. Through the scented mist, Damen can see beams of thin red light tracing from floor to ceiling down the hallway. A laser grid.

Nikandros swears under his breath. “Fucking perfect.”

Damen counts a dozen beams in the raspberry fog. They move in strange patterns, circling and gliding across the floor seemingly at random. He draws a slow breath and signals the others to wait. After several minutes, Damen rises from his crouch and nods. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than anyone else, “Nik, take my hairspray, just keep spraying so the lights are visible. I’ve got this.”

Taking a deep breath, he moves. It’s less a tactical exercise than a dance as he launches himself into the flowing matrix of light. He dips, crouches and leaps, twisting and torquing his body around the red beams. The hairspray-filled air burns his lungs but he doesn’t let himself stop. The lights dip lower and he tucks into a roll only to spring back to his feet and a second later flattens himself to the ground again as the beams sweep mere inches from his chest. He rolls onto his back and kicks his feet up into the air, springing upright with a powerful contraction of his core, and then – he’s through, gasping and coughing through the raspberry-mango-sparkle cupcake haze that permeates the hall. Recovering his breath, he looks back. Nikandros and Laurent are two shadowy figures caged behind the prowling laser beams.

“Jesus, Damen,” Pallas’ voice in his ear nearly makes him jump. “That was insane.”

“Great,” he says as he regains his breath, “there must be some way to deactivate it from here-“

“No need,” Laurent’s voice cuts across the hallway. He strides to one of the glass-walled offices on the side and crouches next to what must be a keypad by the door. Damen can’t see from the far end of the hall but hears a piercing beep before the laser grid disappears and all that’s left in the hallway is the overly fragranced mist.

“How the hell did you do that?” Damen demands as Laurent walks calmly down the length of the corridor.

Laurent simply scoffs. “Unlike you, I do my research.”

There’s a retort ready on Damen’s tongue but he falls silent at a warning look from Nikandros, who coughs as he follows Laurent through the haze. “Did Lazar have to pick all the disgustingly scented shit?” he grumbles.

The three of them cluster around the door to Regent’s office. The green light of the retinal scanner blinks placidly before them.

“Right,” Nikandros fishes a small contact lens case from his belt. “Pallas, you better be right about this. I don’t want my eyeballs fried.”

“Please,” comes the retort from the earpiece, “at least pretend to have some faith in me.”

Nikandros inserts the contact lens to his right eye. There’s a soft crackle and he winces. When he faces him, Damen can see Regent’s blue iris staring back at him.

Nikandros stoops slightly and levels his eye to the scanner, holding back the lid. The green light sweeps up and down his eye twice before turning pale blue. A pneumatic hiss lets them know this check has been passed.

“Thank fuck,” Nik hisses as he removes the contact lens, popping it carefully back into its case.

“Just the palm scanner now.” Laurent unrolls a thin polymer sheet from his belt pouch, spreading it taut across the screen. Damen recognizes it as the print from the SkinPrint he’d used with Regent, a copy of his palm print etched onto the white material. Laurent lays his hand flat against the sheet and the light beneath it glows green, then the same pale blue. The door gives another soft hiss and slides open silently. They’re in.

Regent’s office is almost anticlimactic after everything. The couches are the same, the desk by the window blank as last time. The air hangs still and silent, and part of Damen feels as if their very presence disturbs it. He pushes those thoughts away and turns to the bookshelf. It’s hard to see in the dim light filtering in from the city outside. They don’t dare risk light now, so Damen feels along the shelving by touch, gloved fingertips light on the woodwork.

“Here,” he says, fingers finding the telltale metal of a hinge. “It must open inwards.”

Laurent and Nikandros waste no time helping him. The bookcase appears to be set onto a door hidden in the wall behind it.

“Explains why there are no offices directly adjacent to his,” Nik says thoughtfully. “He’s got a safe room in there.”

Laurent is frowning at the bookcase, shadows draped over his brows. “There should be a lever on this side, or some kind of handle. A way to open it.”

“It’s here,” Nikandros says, indicating one of the textbooks at the edge of the shelf. “Look; the spine is metal underneath the cover.” He pulls the book towards himself and there’s a soft click. The entire bookshelf opens inwards to a small room, barely more than a closet. A warm light flicks on, bright after the darkness of the rest of the floor. Nik huffs a small laugh. “This fucker really went the extra mile, didn’t he. I bet-”

He’s cut off by Pallas’ voice in a burst of static. “Guys, we might have a situation. Lazar says the guards are finished on the third floor now but they’re taking the stairs. He can’t tell where they’re headed.”

Damen raises his gaze to Nik’s and they’re thinking the same thing. “Jord.”

“I’ll go,” Nikandros says, though his furrowed brow conveys how loath he is to leave Damen alone with Laurent.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nik says, “you two get to the safe. We’ll rendezvous with Pallas at the car. Damen-”

He breaks off and grips Damen’s forearm tightly, expression urgent. Damen closes his eyes briefly. He knows what he has to do. He has no words to respond but squeezes back, hoping Nik gets the message. Damen won’t fail. He can’t.

Laurent has watched their exchange silently, an unreadable expression on his face. He says nothing as Nikandros leaves the office, the door closing silently behind him.

“And then there were two.” Laurent’s eyes are over-bright in his pale face. He’s grinning but it sits strangely on his lips, a mask not quite adjusted. “Are you ready?”

Damen’s mouth is dry. He nods.

“After you,” Laurent says and ushers Damen through the door.

The safe itself is almost anticlimactic, after everything. It’s an AMSEC BF series - high-grade security, but nothing Damen hasn’t worked with before. He gives the tumbler an experimental spin, testing the caliber of the locking pins inside. The lock jumps minutely under his fingers as he hits on a number, the soft _snck_ of the pin letting him know he has part of the combination. He twirls the dial a few more times, eyes half-closed in concentration.

“That’s odd,” he says softly. “There’s pressure on some of the numbers – non-combination ones. It’s almost as if there’s something inside, some kind of hair-trigger mechanism –”

He turns a questioning look at Laurent and freezes. All the breath leaves his body. Laurent is standing behind him. He is holding a gun and it is pointing at Damen’s head.

“Laurent-” It comes out as a wheeze. He tries again. “What the fuck? What are you doing?” Shock renders him immobile. He can only stare.

“Open the safe.” Laurent’s voice is cool and calm, giving nothing away. His arm aiming the gun is completely steady.

“What’s going on?” Anger and adrenaline rise like a storm in Damen’s chest.

“Open the safe,” Laurent repeats. His voice is deadly soft. Damen turns back to the safe. His heart is hammering so loudly in his ears it takes him several tries to land on the next number of the combination.

“Why are you doing this?” He can’t quite keep his voice steady as he stares at the silver dial. “I trusted you. I thought –”

“You thought you’d use me as a convenient fix to get to the poison first.” Laurent’s voice cuts the air. “Don’t deny it.”

“I-” The words lodge in Damen’s throat. He tries to think through the white fog of adrenaline obscuring his mind. Maybe if Laurent gets closer he can grapple him for the gun –

Behind him, Damen hears the telltale sound of a safety clicking off. He places his shaking hands back on the dial. There is one number left.

“You wanted the poison to prove your innocence.” Laurent’s voice is a sibilant hiss behind him. “To show the authorities that it wasn’t you who killed your father. Don’t you know who it was?”

Damen can barely see through the haze of anger. “Who did it? _Tell me_.” His voice sounds guttural to his own ears, animalistic.

“You don’t really think Kastor wanted you to assume the throne.”

_Kastor_. Damen’s heartbeat is a physical pain in his chest. “No,” he says, or thinks he says. Everything seems very far away. “You lie. Kastor would never – he is my _brother_ –”

“He is the one who stands to gain the most with you gone.”

Damen moves to turn around but the press of a gun barrel to his skull stops him.

Laurent’s voice is suddenly very close. “Open the _fucking_ safe.”

Hands shaking, whole body trembling with barely suppressed rage, Damen does. “You used me,” he growls, even as he listens for the click of the lock opening. “You negotiated and played me and you used me for your own ends.”

There’s an intake of breath behind him, as if Laurent is preparing to answer. He’s cut off as Damen lands on the final number and several things happen at once. The door of the safe springs open on silent hinges. An ear-piercing wail splits the air, the incessant scream of an alarm announcing a security breach. The lights in the room change from a warm white to a flashing neon red.

The safe is empty.

“Where is it?” Damen asks numbly. He can feel himself trembling. “Where’s the poison?”

“Safe,” Laurent answers. “Away.”

Damen’s breathing is very loud in his own ears. The situation sinks in. Here, on his knees in Regent’s headquarters, held frozen at gunpoint even as the feds race towards them. He hopes Nikandros managed to find an exit. “How could I ever have trusted you?”

“That’s a question you’ll need to ask yourself,” Laurent says. “Luckily, you’ll have plenty of time in prison.”

He reverses his grip and cracks the butt of the pistol against Damen’s head, hard. Darkness swallows him.

Everything is a blur after that. The safe is empty and Damen is on the ground, bested, beaten. The blaring alarm turns into the screaming of police sirens and the night sky is painted with blue and red flashing lights. Damen regains consciousness in the middle of his Miranda Rights. He’s slumped in the back of a car, fenced in by the cold metal grille and impenetrable windows. His hands are already cuffed. He barely hears the officer’s voice over the pounding in his head and the sick lurch of his heart. The car drives on and he sits in silence.

At the precinct, Damen is shoved unceremoniously into a cell. Its emptiness is a small mercy.

“You’re being held for bail,” the officer tells him. His face is thick and square, the close-set bue eyes alight with cruelty.

“I’d like to speak to my lawyer,” Damen says, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.

The cop just sneers at him and slams the cell door, leaving Damen alone in the dark.

The night passes slowly. Damen doesn’t sleep; his mind races. _Kastor_. _Kastor did this_. His whole being rebels against that thought: that his brother, his family, could have colluded with Regent, could have acted for his father’s demise. Over and over, Damen replays his times with Kastor in his head: the solicitious attendance at Theomedes’ bedside; the unanswered phone calls; the deep grief in his eyes at the funeral, searching for any hint of the treachery to which he has turned. Confused and heartsick, Damen buries his throbbing head in his hands.

And Laurent? Where did he fit into all of this? Moments between them replay in Damen’s head like a disjointed movie. Here, the strange gentleness of Laurent’s hands on his in the bathroom. There, the cold look in his eyes, _my dear brute_ , the hard press of the barrel of the gun. Damen’s head is bloody from the impact of the gun; it’s dried sticky in his hair, a tangled, matted mess. Shivers wrack his body and Damen swallows sickly against the bile rising in his throat, cursing himself for a fool.

The night wears on. Damen knows he won’t get bail. If Kastor is behind this, Damen’s assets will be frozen; and Nikandros is too smart to link himself tangibly to Damen’s release. The press will have a field day, Damen thinks sourly. They’re the only ones this whole debacle has worked out for. He wonders briefly if it might not have been easier for Laurent to just shoot him in front of the safe. It’s a morbid thought and not entirely comforting. But something had stayed his hand, and now Damen is here, the heir to the Akielos empire stuck in a tiny holding cell, waiting for help that won’t – can’t – come.

_Heir to the empire_. His thoughts turn toward his father. Ever since Delpha – indeed, before then, if he’s being honest with himself – Theomedes had hailed Damen as the heir apparent to his business and Damen – Damen had gone along with it. He knew nothing else. It was the way things were, the status quo; like father, like son. Realization settles around his shoulders, thick and choking. He has spent so long running from this truth. Alone in the dark at the end, he forces himself to face it. Deep down, Damen knows he is not meant to succeed his father. The droning hours of board meetings and market cap negotiations have never held any thrill for him – nothing like cracking a safe combination, the prickling electricity of dodging surveillance equipment. Damen thinks of the chase across the rooftop with Laurent, the night air fresh and cold, and feeling alive. Truth settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He may be his father’s son, but his path is not something his father wanted.

Morning comes and the fluorescent lights of the precinct flicker grudgingly on. Damen squints, eyes unused to the glare after the night spent in darkness. Two officers are standing in front of his cell.

“You, up.” The gruff voice brooks no argument. Damen stands, disoriented and slightly off-balance; he’s still cuffed.

“What’s happening?”

The man doesn’t answer, but unlocks the cell door. “This way.”

Damen remains in the cell. “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t ask questions,” the guard growls, hand flicking automatically to the taser at his hip. Damen catches the movement and his heart beats faster.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “I’ll follow.”

The officers escort him down the short hall and through the precinct. Damen tries to slow the walk but the guard behind him plants a hand on his back, shoving him forward so that he stumbles, cracking his knees painfully on the tiled floor.

“Get up, asshole. Keep moving.” The guard hauls Damen roughly to his feet. For a moment, Damen thinks about lashing out, catching the man off-guard and making a break for it. Then reality sets in and he remembers where he is and how outnumbered. All of the cops have guns. He keeps moving.

“Where are we going?” he tries again, as he’s manhandled through another set of doors and down a long hallway.

The guard behind him only answers with another shove at Damen’s shoulders and he has to run awkwardly to avoid falling.

“You’re being transferred,” the guard in front says, never slowing his purposeful walk.

Damen chokes on a breath suddenly gone cold as ice. “Transferred – where?”

“I said, _shut up_.” The guard behind him brandishes his taser.

Damen ignores him. “You can’t do this. I haven’t had a trial-”

His words turn into an involuntary cry of pain as he’s hit with several hundred volts of electricity. The shock shudders through him and he falls to the ground again, muscles twitching in agonizing spasms. Hands on his arms hoist him upright and Damen is half-dragged, half-carried the final yards to the exit.

The door emerges into a small courtyard at the back of the precinct where an unmarked van is waiting. The morning’s pale light illuminates the cracks in the asphalt Damen is dragged over, spattered here and there with bird droppings and stains the colour of rust that might have been old blood.

Damen works to regain his footing as one of the guards reaches up to bang on the van’s rear door. It opens with a long buzz and a pneumatic hiss. Damen is shoved inside the windowless compartment and the door slams closed with a bang, leaving him once again in darkness. His whole body throbs from the brutal shock of the taser, a relentless pain. As his eyes adjust, he can make out a grille near the top of the wall that serves as a vent, and a dark plexiglass screen separating his compartment from the front of the van. Damen thumps on it repeatedly.

“Hey! Where are you taking me?” His voice is hoarse and raw to his own ears.

Unsurprisingly, there is no answer. The van lurches suddenly and Damen is thrown against the wall, barely able to brace himself with his hands cuffed together. The van doesn’t seem to be moving, though, and after a moment, the rear door buzzes open again and an officer climbs through, seating himself across from Damen.

“Are you here to guard me?”

The officer doesn’t respond, nor does he look in Damen’s direction, but the semi-automatic rifle laid across his knees speaks volumes. Damen doesn’t ask again.

With another mighty jolt, the van lurches forward again, and this time Damen knows they’re moving. The engine rumbles through the compartment, making the metal benches vibrate slightly. He curls his hands into fists on his knees, ignoring the soreness of his wrists where the metal handcuffs bite into his flesh. His mind spins with possibilities that loop end over end like fraying thread. He’s being transferred from holding to – where? Trial seems unlikely, so soon after being arrested. He’s obviously not being released. Heart sinking, Damen considers that he’s being transferred to a federal prison. The darkness in the cramped van suddenly seems more sinister than before.

They drive for what feels like hours before the van pulls to a stop. The grey light of morning has burned away and small rays of sunlight slip through the raised grille, throwing bright bars across the inside of the compartment. Damen wonders sickly if this will be the last time he sees sunlight. He eyes the gun laid across the guard’s lap warily. They could, he knows, shoot him now, out here with no prying eyes; no one would be any the wiser. Damen tenses as the rear door flies open; he brings his hands up automatically to shield his eyes from the daylight. Squinting into the brightness, he nearly misses the small object tossed his way. It clatters to the metal bench with a small tinny sound. A key.

It’s so unexpected that for a moment, Damen can only stare in mute confusion at the key beside him.

“Well? Are you going to take them off or what?” The familiar voice is so jarring that Damen starts.

“Lazar?”

The guard grins. His helmet is off now and Damen can see the familiar head of dark hair. But –

“You shaved.”

Lazar grimaces. “Don’t remind me. Do you know what I sacrificed for this? Pallas hasn’t slept with me since. You’re lucky I like you, Akielos.”

Incredulity makes Damen’s throat tight. If Lazar is here, that means –

“Damen!”

The word is barely out of Nik’s mouth before Damen launches himself at his friend. It’s clumsy and awkward, Damen half-falling out of the van as Nikandros comes round from the driver’s side. His hands are still cuffed together, so he barrels into his friend’s chest, knocking both of them back a few feet as Nikandros laughs.

“You-“ Damen says when he pulls back, still in shock, “how did…?”

Nikandros’ mouth twists in a wry smile. “It’s a long story,” he says. “Here, take your cuffs off, you’re not trying to make a weird fashion statement.” He fishes the key from the recesses of the van and helps Damen slide the cuffs off.

“I should have recognized your driving,” Damen says as he massages his wrists.

Nikandros shoves him lightly and Damen leans against the warm metal of the van, basking in the noon heat. They’ve stopped on the shoulder of an empty stretch of highway.

“Waiting for the rest,” Nik says in response to Damen’s questioning look. Damen’s heart rate kicks up a notch.

A few minutes later, Lazar peers down the road in the direction they came. “Looks like we have company,” he says. Damen follows his line of sight and can just make out a car on the horizon, headed their way.

The car draws closer and Damen’s heart rises because there’s only one person he knows who would play pop music so loudly. The car signals and pulls over on the shoulder of the highway. The music cuts off abruptly and Pallas staggers out of the passenger door. Jord and Orlant follow him, looking slightly green.

“Never again,” he mutters as he gets closer to them, “never again am I getting in a car with that hellion at the wheel.”

The driver’s door opens and – Damen squints – “Nicaise?”

“Is he even old enough to drive?” Nikandros wonders out loud, earning himself a glare from the boy in question.

“You’re welcome,” Niciase says as he stomps up to them, smacking Damen in the chest with a heavy manila folder.

Damen opens it. “Is this…?”

“Your whole police record, which has summarily been expunged from the system?” Nicaise finishes for him. “Yes, it is.”

Damen stares at it wonderingly, then at the slight figure in front of him. “How did you do that?”

The loud rumbling of an engine cuts off whatever Nicaise is about to say. Damen looks up to see a motorcycle racing toward them. The rider slows and pulls over as he approaches. He raises his helmet and Damen’s entire being reorients itself around the familiar cascade of blonde hair.

“Laurent.”

He’s moving before he’s even conscious of it, closing the distance between them in great strides; but Laurent is there already, a handspan away, staring up at him, blue eyes stark in his pale face.

Damen looks at him and tries to summon words.

“It was the only way,” Laurent says, and Damen hears all the meaning coursing beneath the surface of his words.

Laurent’s eyes are still searching his face. He says, “I-“

“Laurent,” Damen says. His hand is on Laurent’s elbow, on the thick leather of the motorcycle jacket. “Stop talking.”

He brings their lips together there on the sunny, dusty roadside. For a moment the world falls away and all there is is the softness of Laurent’s lips, the yielding warmth of his mouth. He grips Damen’s arm and deepens the kiss until he’s hanging onto Damen’s jacket and Damen has one hand tangled in his hair.

They break apart to a chorus of jeers and wolf-whistles from their audience. Nicaise is making gagging noises into his hands and Damen flips him off. He’s grinning despite himself. Beside him, Laurent is flushed, the heat of the kiss bringing colour to his pale cheeks, but when he speaks, his voice is as collected as ever.

“Did you get it?”

Nicaise waves the folder with a barely-suppressed look of triumph. As Damen watches, he fishes a lighter from his pocket and touches the flame to the paper’s edge. The flame takes quickly and soon all that’s left of Damen’s record is a pile of grey ash, being slowly withered away in the timid wind.

Damen finds his voice again in the silence. “How did this happen? The poison…”

“Was already relocated some weeks ago by Nicaise,” Laurent says.

A stone lodges in Damen’s throat. “Did you know?”

Laurent’s mouth thins. “No. I had suspicious, but nothing more than that. I only realized when I saw the empty safe.”

“Regent is in jail now,” he continues. “He’s being held in state security, where he will await trial on the matters of conspiracy to murder Theomedes Akielos, Damianos Akielos and Auguste de Vere.”

He raises an eyebrow at Damen’s incredulous look. “You didn’t think my brother overdosed on drugs and drink after one board meeting, did you? He is also being indicted on a number of other charges, among them fraud, bribery and sexual relations with a minor.”

Damen feels the air go cold around him. Nicaise frowns, looking away. Fragments of memory align in Damen’s mind: the black hoodie on Regent’s sofa; the Ganymede painting; Nicaise at the reception desk at two in the morning; the quickly shuttered fear in his eyes when Damen had knocked on the door. He clenches his fists in understanding.

“And Kastor?” His voice is almost unrecognizable to his own ears, low and brusque.

Laurent’s eyes glitter like shattered glass. “Kastor is under house arrest. He faces charges of colluding with Regent in your father’s murder.” His expression softens as he looks at Damen. “I’m sorry.”

Damen swallows. The grief will come later, he knows. For now, though, there is only the bright sunlight and the feeling in his chest like the slow unfurling of wings. “So we got to the safe. You saw the poison was gone…”

“Everyone else managed to get out,” Laurent says, looking around the semi-circle they’ve all formed. “You were-“

“The bait,” Damen finishes, just as Laurent says, “the distraction.”

“Go on.”

“We had to rendezvous with Pallas immediately; we didn’t have much time to act. We were able to slip away from the scene as the cops were putting you in the car.”

Pallas speaks. “Tracing the car to the precinct was easy; hacking the cameras was tricky, but luckily we had a man on the inside.”

Damen frowns. “Who?”

Nicaise lifts his chin, the gesture so like Laurent it makes Damen’s heart clench. “My internship finally came in handy. I was able to get Pallas into the CCTV system and get access to your file to wipe it.”

“Thank you,” Damen says, grateful. Nicaise waves him off.

“We had to borrow some uniforms,” Nikandros says, in a way that Damen’s pretty sure means there are police officers waking up naked in a supply closet somewhere. “Luckily, they’ll let pretty much anyone rent a security van these days, as long as you pay enough. After that, it was just a matter of making sure the idiots on the inside got you from the cell to the van in one piece.”

Damen thinks of the searing pain of the taser. “Just about,” he says.

They stand for a moment longer by the side of the road before Jord harries them into action, practical as always. The transport van is wiped down to remove any fingerprints. Jord, Orlant, Nikandros, Pallas and Lazar pile into the car with Nicaise. Damen looks at Laurent who holds out a gloved hand.

“Ride with me.”

Damen looks back at Nikandros. His friend nods. “I don’t have a helmet,“ Damen begins, but Laurent unstraps a helmet from where it was tied to his seat. Damen takes it. “You planned-“

Laurent corrects him. “I hoped.”

Their eyes meet again. Damen feels the warmth of the sun kissing his skin. “So,” he says, taking the helmet, “where to?”

Laurent seats himself astride the bike and Damen climbs on behind him, locking his arms around his waist. “Anywhere,” he says, revving the engine beneath them.

They peel onto the road and the wind whips eagerly at them as they gain speed. Damen presses himself against Laurent, warm despite the biting wind. The road stretches on before them.

“Anywhere sounds good to me,” he says, and smiles.

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Elle and the rest of the mods for creating and running such a fun event. 
> 
> This work was inspired by the wonderful Kir ([aaymeirah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaymeirah)) and [this artwork](https://two-bits-art.tumblr.com/post/190197859294/as-part-of-the-captive-prince-reverse-bang-2019). I fell in love with the bickering and the art style and this fic was born. Big, big thank you to Kir for being so accommodating and patient as I worked on this (it's officially the longest fic I've ever written). 
> 
> Shout out as well to [aelinskingdom-insta](https://aelinskingdom-insta.tumblr.com/) who graciously beta-read and helped me brainstorm my way through this, and to all the other bang writers on the discord server who joined me in my suffering.
> 
> I wanted to challenge myself and write something plotty, which I don't normally do, and it certainly was a challenge! Feedback, etc. always appreciated!


End file.
